UC-NRLF 


REV.   D.   O.    CKOWLEY,    LL.D. 


SONGS,  SONNETS 


AND 


ESSAYS 


SONGS    AND    ESSAYS 

BY 

REV.    D.   O.   CROW  LEY,  LL.D. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

SONGS    AND    SONNETS 

BY 

REV.    T.    L.    CROWLEY,    O.  P. 

AQUINAS  COLLEGE,  COLUMBUS,  OHIO 


PREFACE  BY  MAURICE  FRANCIS  .EGAN,  LL.D. 
Minister  of  the  United  States  to  Denmark 


BOSTON 

THOMAS    J.     FLYNN    &    CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


PHELAN 

COPYRIGHT,  1912, 
BY  REV.  T.  L.  CROWLHY,  O.  P. 


FOREWORD 

REV.    T.    L.    CROWLKY,    O.P. 

T  N  submitting  this  collection  of  poems  to  the  public, 
I  am  not  unconscious  of  my  literary  limitations. 
The  natural  misgivings  which  come  to  every  tyro  in 
this  field  of  effort  are  keenly  experienced  by  me.  I 
have  yielded,  however,  to  the  wishes  of  my  friends, 
and,  encouraged  by  them,  venture  to  offer  my  first 
effusions  in  a  collective  form. 

My  lyrics  and  sonnets  have  appeared  at  different 
intervals  in  Catholic  periodicals.  They  were  written 
during  the  busy  days  of  my  student  life,  when  there 
was  little  leisure  to  bestow  mature  thought  and  labor 
upon  them. 

Another  motive  for  this  publication  is  to  give  per- 
manency to  the  poems  which  my  uncle,  the  Rev.  D. 
O.  Crowley,  had  written  in  his  earlier  years.  From 
childhood  I  learned  to  love  the  music  of  his  verses; 
and  the  publication  of  them  now  affords  me  an 
opportunity  of  manifesting  both  my  admiration  and 
affection. 

The  permission  of  my  very  reverend  superior  has 
been  granted  for  the  issuance  of  this  volume.  Au- 
thorization from  Father  Crowley  will  be  found  in  a 
fac-simile  letter  on  another  page.  Any  comment 
fiom  my  pen  on  the  character  of  the  man  or  the  merit 


774196 


FOREWORD 


of  his  writings  I  am  confident  would  fail  in  its  pur- 
pose. A  scholarly  appreciation  of  his  work  and 
worth  has  been  forwarded  to  me  by  a  distinguished 
author  from  the  Pacific  coast,  which  I  here  append : 

"  There  is  no  man  so  splendidly  loyal  as  he  to  whom  love 
of  country  is  a  birthright  and  devotion  to  liberty,  a  passion 
and  principle  handed  down  from  father  to  son  through  gen- 
erations of  those  who  struggled  and  suffered  for  that  freedom 
which  they  know  to  be  the  inalienable  right  of  themselves 
and  their  children  unto  all  generations.  The  Patriotism  that 
is  tear-wet  and  blood-moistened  alters  not,  whatever  circum- 
stances the  years  may  bring.  He  who  possesses  it  may  be 
an  exile  from  the  country  of  his  birth,  but  his  unforgetting 
heart  forever  will  turn  back  to  his  native  land  in  love  and 
longing,  and  no  year  can  come  to  him  so  late  that  his  eyes 
will  not  grow  dim  at  thought  of  fair  places  that  his  childhood 
knew. 

"  And  he  will  be  a  better  citizen  of  his  adopted  land  be- 
cause of  this  love  of  country  that  was  his  divine  heritage. 
Patriotism,  it  is  true,  wTill  tolerate  no  divided  allegiance,  but 
again  and  again  we  see  demonstrated  that  it  may  bear  a  double 
allegiance  right  proudly.  High  and  fair  in  American  history 
are  written  the  names  of  those  who  have  loved  this  country 
most  because  they  first  loved  a  land  that  is  far  away  beyond 
wide  waters. 

"  So  it  is  that  in  his  few  poems  in  this  little  book  the 
memory  of  Rev.  D.  O.  Crowley  —  Father  Crowley,  as  those 
of  us  who  know  and  love  him  are  most  pleased  to  think  of 
him  —  turns  back  in  affectionate  longing  to  '  The  Green  Isle 
of  the  Celt,'  where 

'  The  zephyrs,  softly  breathing, 

Waft  a  fragrance  o'er  the  plains, 
And  the  fadeless  ivy's  wreathing 

Round  the  ancient,  mouldering  fanes.' 

"Splendid  American  that  he  is;  beloved  by  young  and 
old,  by  Catholic  and  Protestant,  Jew  and  gentile,  Christian 
and  pagan ;  beloved  of  these  because  of  good  deeds  that 


FOREWORD 


have  known  no  creed  distinction,  to  me  there  seems  some- 
thing beautiful  in  Father  Crowley's  tender  yearning  unto  the 
dear  home  of  his  childhood.  His  is  no  divided  allegiance 
of  patriotism,  but  a  double  allegiance  equally  glorious,  whether 
told  in  dreams  of  an  olden  time  that  come  in  quiet  hours,  or 
written  in  valiant  striving  for  the  welfare  of  the  home  of  later 
years.  It  is  love  of  Ireland  emphasized  in  righteous  deeds 
for  America. 

"The  music  of  the  verse  appeals.  As  much  might  be 
said  of  much  current  poetry  that  has  little  or  naught  save  its 
music  to  recommend  it,  but  here  there  is  more  that  needs  the 
saying.  In  the  lines,  and  between  the  lines  for  him  who 
reads  understandingly,  is  written  deep  devotion  for  the  Green 
Isle  of  the  author's  birth,  indignant  sorrow  for  the  many 
grevious  wrongs  its  children  have  endured,  and  intense  long- 
ing for  the  good  day  yet  to  come  when  the  long  night  of 
Erin's  brutal  subjection  shall  terminate  in  the  bright  dawn  of 
her  freedom. 

"  Herein  are  poems  that  should  appeal  to  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Ireland,  whether  here  or  there,  and  they  should 
appeal,  too,  to  all  who  deem  that  love  of  country,  wherever 
and  however  expressed,  is  a  sentiment  to  be  held  dear  by  all 
who  believe  that  He  has  placed  the  nations  here  to  work  out 
His  purpose  unto  the  '  far  off,  divine  event  to  which  the 
whole  Creation  moves.' 

"  I  wish  this  book,  of  which  these  verses  contribute  a  part, 
much  prosperity  in  its  voyage  over  the  somewhat  stormy 
waters  of  literature,  and  I  fancy  it  will  have  it,  for — it 
deserves  it." 

A.  J.   WATERHOUSE. 
Berkeley,  California^ 

April,  1912, 


PREFACE 

/COVENTRY  PATMORE  says  that  "poetry  is 
^-^  essentially  catholic  and  affirmative,  dealing 
only  with  the  permanent  facts  of  nature  and  human- 
ity and  interested  in  the  events  and  controversies  of 
its  own  time  only  so  far  as  they  evolve  manifestly 
abiding  fruits." 

Now,  as  one  of  the  most  essentially  catholic  and 
affirmative  qualities  of  life,  is  religion,  it  follows  that 
religion  is  one  of  the  most  fitting  subjects  for  poeti- 
cal treatment.  If  a  lyric  is  an  expression  of  an 
emotion,  religion  cannot  be  cast  out  from  the  essen- 
tial motives  of  the  poet  who  sings.  It  is  almost  an 
axiom  among  the  modern  poets  that  poetry  should 
never  be  didactic— that  it  should  never  teach  directly 
— and  that  since  the  religious  poet  as  a  rule,  teaches 
directly,  he  has  really  no  reason  to  be.  One  may 
admit — that  the  man  who  pretends  to  teach  had  bet- 
ter confine  himself  to  prose.  Plato,  for  instance, 
would  have  been  very  dull  as  a  teaching  poet.  Even 
Dante  becomes  wearisome  when  he  tries  to  force 
dogma  into  musical  verse.  Milton  is  insufferably 
uninteresting  when  he  attempts  to  do  this,  too,  and 
Pope,  with  all  his  smoothness,  becomes  a  mere  maker 
of  proverbs,  when  he  assumes  the  character  of  a 
pedagogue. 

Admitting  this,  then,  poets  like  Father  Crowley, 
the  author  of  this  little  volume  I  have  the  honor  to 
present  to  the  public,  are  all  the  more  legitimately 
exercising  their  vocations  when  they  express  the 


VI  11  PREFACE 


emotions  of  religion,  the  passing  shades  of  sentiment 
which  result  from  those  deep  convictions  which  spring 
from  the  sources  of  spiritual  life. 

If  one  assumes  that  poetry  is  a  criticism  of  life, 
life  cannot  be  the  object  of  criticism  in  the  fullest 
sense,  unless  the  religious  side  of  life  is  taken  into 
consideration.  To  the  religious  man  all  things  are 
sacramental.  The  aspect  of  nature  is  real  it  is  true, 
but  its  varying  shades  are  only  at  best  symbols  of 
more  essential  things.  You  may  call  the  color  of 
the  rose  an  accident  of  beauty  ;  but  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  the  real  substance  of  the  rose,  per- 
sistent and  perennial,  is  still  more  beautiful.  It  is 
unnecessary  for  me  to  point  out  examples  of  such 
beauty  in  this  book  —  they  are  easily  found  on  every 
page.  Nature  and  religion  poetically  have  become 
one.  Beauty  is  faith  and  faith  beauty.  In  prefacing 
the  book  of  a  Dominican  by  these  words,  I  am  safe 
in  saying  that  if  a  rigid  theologian  might  cavil  at 
these  phrases,  the  most  orthodox  philosopher  will  not. 

Should  the  reader,  following  a  vulgar  tradition 
which  is  becoming  outworn,  be  tempted  to  pass  by 
this  volume  because  it  consists  of  religious,  aspira- 
tional  and  reflective  verse,  let  me  stay  his  steps  with 
the  assertion  that  there  is  not  here  one  line  that  be- 
trays an  affectation  or  a  pose. 


C 


/H  r 

\\       VV«-  . 


INDEX 


BY  REV.  D.  O.  CROWLEY,  LL.D. 

PAGE 

THE  MOUNTAIN-GIRT  VALLEY  OF  BEARE        .        .  i 

THE  SWEET  AND  GOLDEN  WEST     ....  4 

DECORATION  DAY     .......  6 

ERIN 8 

THE  COLISEUM ii 

CLOUNTREEM 17 

MA  COLLEEN  DHAS  CRUTHA  NA  Mo      .         .         .  18 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  SOLILOQUY      .....  20 
ST.  PATRICK'S  DAY           .        .        .        .        .        .22 

THE  SONGS  OF  OUR  LAND 23 

ROBARD     .........  24 

MORTY  OGE 27 

LAW  AND  LIBERTY 31 

FAREWELL,  MY  NATIVE  HOME        ....  32 

RETURNING  TO  ERIN 34 

HURRAH  FOR  THE  SWORD  AND  THE  RIFLE    .         .  37 

THE  EXILE'S  RETURN 40 

AN  EXILE'S  PRAYER 43 

CHRISTMAS  MEMORIES 45 

THE  GREEN  ISLE  OF  THE  CELT        ....  47 

MOUNTAIN  STREAMS 49 

JOSEPH  CLEBURNE'S  GRAVE 51 

THE  TOCSIN  OF  WAR 52 

ESSAYS rr 

THE  POET  PRIEST.     Personal  Recollections  of  Rev. 

John  B.  Tabb 57 

JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL,  Poet  Laureate  of  the  Con- 
federacy, Patriot  and  Journalist           .         .         .  71 
ix 


INDEX 


BY  REV.  T.  L.  CROWLEY,  O.P. 

PAGB 

BEYOND 95 

THE  FLOWERS  OF  PRESENT  LOVE   ....  96 

AWAKENED  JOY        .......  98 

MAGDALEN         ...         .....  99 

FRIEND  OF  OUR  EXILE    ......  100 

THE  AZURE  OF  REMEMBRANCE        ....  101 

RABBONI 102 

NATURE'S  LESSONS 103 

MY  OFFERING 104 

THE  TRIPLE  LEGACY 105 

THE  CRATER  OF  CALUMNY 107 

THE  TENDER  LOVE  OF  CHRIST       .        .        .        .  108 

THE  HOLY  NAME no 

MY  MOTHER'S  EYES  .         .        .        .         .         .        .in 

AN  AUTUMNAL  MUSING 112 

LIFE'S  CANOPY 114 

PREPARE  YOUR  HEARTS 115 

A  NOBLER  CONQUEST 117 

THE  DEATHLESS  GIFT 118 

A  BRIGHTER  FLAME 120 

EASTER  DAWN 121 

A  SWEETER  HARP 123 

THE  ONE  SWEET  DAY 124 

THE  WISDOM  OF  THE  CROSS 126 

THE  SEASONS 127 

THE  CHRISTIAN  SACRIFICE 129 

MOTHER  OF  SORROWS       ......  130 

AN  AWAKENING        .......  132 

THE  SANCTUARY  LAMP    ......  133 

THE  SILVER  SHEAF          ......  135 

THE  SPIRITUAL  DYNASTY  OF  PAIN         .        .        .  136 
To  THE  GARDEN  OF  HEAVEN          .        .        .        .138 


INDEX  xi 


PAGE 

LAZARUS '39 

COME  TO  THY  THRONE 141 

IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  HEART    .        .  .142 

MILLERS  AT  LIFE'S  STONE 143 

THE  SPICES  OF  A  NEW  LIFE 145 

THE  MONTH  OF  MAY       .        .        .        .         .         .146 

LIFE'S  CALVARIES 148 

COMPANION  OF  OUR  WAY 149 

CONFIDENCE 151 

THE  VISION  OF  THE  WEST 152 

LIFE'S  TRUEST  FRIEND 154 

THE  SYMPHONY  OF  THE  SAINTS      .        .        .        .156 

THE  BETTER  QUEST 158 

MY  IDOL 160 

THE  GUERDONED  BRIDES  OF  CHRIST      .        .         .161 

THE  HEM  OF  His  GARMENT 163 

THE  KINGLY  GUEST 165 

THE  FLEETING  BREATH  OF  FAME  ....       167 
REST 169 


SONGS   AND   ESSAYS 

BY 

REV.    D.    O.   CROWLEY.  LL.D. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 


THE    MOUNTAIN-GIRT   VALLEY 
OF    BEARE 

\1  7 HEN  fanned  by  the  halcyon  breezes 

That  down  from  the  Indian  Isles, 
Career  o'er  Caribbean  waters, 

Where  summer  eternally  smiles, 
I've  dreamt  of  thee,  sweet,  sunny  Erin, 

And  oft-times  away  o'er  the  fpanij 
In  spirit  I  lovingly  wandered 

The  haunts  of  my  boyhood  —  my  home  ; 
For,  oh  !  there  is  naught  in  the  tropics 

In  beauty,  with  thee  can  compare, 
Loved  land  of  the  bard  and  the  Brehon, — 

Sweet  mountain-girt  Valley  of  Beare. 

Away  where  the  calm  Sacramento 
Rolls  down  over  nuggets  of  gold, 

And  thousands  of  freemen  are  herding 
Their  flocks  by  the  mountain  and  wold, 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

I've  sauntered  when  twilight  was  brooding, 

And  sipped  the  delicious  perfume, 
Of  oranges,  limes,  and  bananas, 

And  trellised  vines  bright  in  their  bloom  ; 
But  oh,  than  the  fair  Occidental, 

There  is  one  land  I  cherish  more  dear,  — 
'Tis  the  sweet,  happy  home  of  my  boyhood, 

The  mountain-girt  Valley  of  Beare. 


I've  roamed  thro'  the  Yosemite  Valley, 

And  gazed  with  excessive  delight 
On  torrents  that  there,  'neath  the  sunshine, 

Leap  down  inaccessible  height ; 
I've  climbed  the  Sierras'  proud  summits, 

And  basked  in  the  sunshine  and  glow 
Of  a  beautiful  calm  Indian  summer, 

By  the  waters  of  lonely  Tahoe ; 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  3 

But  oh  !  to  my  eye  thou  art  fairest 
Of  all  the  fair  climes  of  the  sphere, 

To  my  heart  thou  art  nearest  and  dearest  — 
Sweet  mountain-girt  Valley  of  Beare. 

When  the  day-god's  last  lustre  is  gilding 

The  slopes  of  the  grand  Golden  State, 
And  the  modern  Argonaut's  fleet  ships 

Come  home  through  the  famed  Golden  Gate, 
I  stray  o'er  the  new  El  Dorado, 

The  land  of  the  free  and  the  blest, 
And  sigh  for  that  Emerald  Island 

That  gems  the  Atlantic's  white  crest ; 
For  fate,  so  relentless  and  cruel, 

Doth  cause  me  to  linger  still  here, 
And  pine  for  my  home  by  the  ocean  — 

The  mountain-girt  Valley  of  Beare. 


BffiHf 


,   SONATETS  AND  ESSAYS 


' 


THE  SWEET  AND  GOLDEN 
WEST 

'"THEY  talk  of  the  beauteous  Dardanelles, 

And  the  sunny  land  of  Spain  ; 
Of  scenes  where  primeval  Nature  dwells 

Away  by  the  Indian  main  ; 
But  the  plastic  germ  of  empire  great 

Wakes  hope  in  every  breast, 
Where  a  future  grand  looms  o'er  the  land 

Of  the  sweet  and  golden  West. 

I  have  roamed  by  sunny  southern  seas, 

Thro'  breathing  groves  of  palm, 
Where  flight  of  birds  alone  disturbs 

The  blue  ethereal  calm  ; 
But  the  vernal  vest  of  the  glowing  West 

Is  fairer  far  to  me 
Than  the  sun-robed  South  with  its  coral  isles 

And  cloudless  canopy. 


SOJVGS,   SOAfJV£TS  AND   ESSAYS  5 

The  sun  there  smiles  on  a  hundred  isles 

Of  the  greenest  and  loveliest  hue, 
Ere  his  rays  are  spent  in  the  Occident 

Where  he  bids  the  world  adieu ; 
And  Sierras  tall  from  a  hundred  peaks 

Their  darkling  shadows  throw 
O'er  a  virgin  land  where  glades  expand 

And  beautiful  rivers  flow. 

Those  sombre  dells  where  the  wild  deer  dwells, 

And  the  rude  red  Indian  roams, 
Are  yielding  now  to  the  white  man's  steel, 

And  the  white  men  build  their  homes 
Over  Indian  graves  where  the  Madrone  waves 

And  sunbeams  love  to  rest 
When  evening  shades  steal  thro'  the  glades 

Of  the  sweet  and  golden  West. 


SOA'GS,   SOATNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


DECORATION    DAY 

Y\7  E  pray  for  the  fond  ones  whose  life-blood 

On  liberty's  altar  was  shed  ; 
And  deck  with  green  garlands  and  flowers 
The  graves  of  the  patriot  dead  ; 

Who  stood  by  the  Union's  proud  banner, 

With  sabre  and  rifle  in  rest, 
When  her  cause  looked  as  gloomy  and  cheerless 

As  storm-clouds  blocked  in  the  West ; 

Who  marched  thro'  the  red  field  of  battle, 
And  breasted  the  brunt  of  the  fight, 

When  the  guns  of  Rebellion  outrattled 
Death-hail  against  Justice  and  right. 

Weave,  weave  your  gay  garlands,  young  maidens, 

And  make  no  distinction  today, 
'Twixt  those  who  went  down  in  the  blue  ranks 

And  those  who  fell  under  the  gray. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

The  Patriot,  Poet  and  Statesman, 

Long,  long  shall  their  virtues  proclaim  ; 

In  the  fond-feeling  heart  of  the  Nation, 
Upbuilt  is  their  temple  of  fame. 

And  there  it  shall  stand  forth  unshaken, 
Defying  wreck,  ruin  and  change, 

Adown  thro'  the  vistas  of  ages 

While  Time  on  his  orbit  doth  range. 


SOJVGS.   SONiVE7"S  AND   ESSAYS 


ERIN 

T    O  !  the  nations  are  advancing! 

Wilt  them  not  with  them  keep  pace  ? 
Art  thou  dead,  or  art  thou  sleeping 

In  the  tyrant's  vile  embrace  ? 
Awake  !  arise  !  inglorious  slumber 

Ne'er  should  pall  thy  queenly  brow  — 
Hark  !   Republics,  sunward  soaring, 

Fondly  call  thee  onward  now. 

There  are  paths  abundant  ever 

Through  which  dauntless  souls  may  tread 
On  the  sunbright  fame  and  freedom, 

Though  they  be  with  carnage  spread. 
Through  such  pathways  young  Columbia 

Sought  relief  from  tyrant's  sway  — 
Only  steel  such  freedom  giveth 

As  doth  wreath  her  brow  today. 

Had  she  trusted  —  vainly  trusted  - 

Moral  force  to  right  her  wrong, 
Still  her  fate  were  thine,  dear  Erin, 

Bound  in  abject  slavery's  tongs, 
Nature  loves  her  for  her  action, 

And  hath  strewn  with  bounteous  hand 
Golden  harvests  from  Alaska 

Southward  to  Haytian  strand. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

O'Connell,  Grattan,  Clay  and  Everett, 

Place  them  in  a  province  each  — 
Bid  them  bring  back  Ireland's  freedom 

With  their  magic  powers  of  speech. 
All  their  eloquence  and  logic 

Backed  by  oratoric  art 
Would  not  rend  the  tiniest  rivet 

Of  her  festering  gyves  apart. 

Heed  not,  then,  those  slavish  doctrines 

That  denounce  and  deem  not  good 
Freedom  won  through  strife  of  battle, 

Fields  of  carnage,  streams  of  blood ; 
Thus  did  Tell,  on  Switzer  Mountains, 

Hurl  his  land's  enslavers  back, 
Ghastly  death  profusely  'round  him, 

Glorious  Freedom  on  his  track. 

Strike  !  nor  wait  until  tomorrow  ; 

Strength  is  wasting,  life  is  frail  ; 
What  you  picture  for  the  future 

Bring  within  the  present's  pale. 
He  who  climbs  to  lofty  station 

Dreams  not  strength  and  youth  away ; 
Heaven  is  sure  to  crown  his  purpose 

Who  doth  work  as  well  as  pray. 


THE  COLISEUM 


PART  I 

T_J  EARKEN,  ye  bards,  I  sing  a  noble  theme, 

The  pride  of  Rome,  the  wondrous  Coliseum ; 
Whose  aged  ruins  in  tow'ring  boldness  stand, 
Their  shadows  casting  o'er  a  storied  land  ; 
Whose  ancient  splendor  e'en  surpassed  the  height 
Of  fact's  far  range,  or  fancy's  chainless  flight. 

Ere  yet  the  Christian  sun  of  modern  Rome 
Had  shed  effulgence  on  St.  Peter's  dome, 
The  Coliseum,  six  hundred  feet  in  length, 
In  width  five  hundred,  peerless  in  its  strength 
Of  pillar'd  arches,  tow'rs  and  turrets  high, 
Reared  its  dimensions  to  the  sapphire  sky. 
Caesar  spoke,  Augustus  laid  its  plan  ; 
Titus  finished  what  Augustine  began ; 
Tier  after  tier  uprose  in  doric  style, 
Out-soaring  the  pyramids  of  the  mystic  Nile  ; 
And  its  vast  awning  when  at  morn  outrolled, 
Flashed  in  the  sun,  an  undulating  sea  of  gold. 
ii 


12  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

Its  cushioned  theatre  of  elliptic  mould, 
Glittered  with  lamps  inlaid  with  Syrian  gold ; 
With  precious  rubies,  culled  from  eastern  mines, 
And  sacred  pendants  torn  from  Juda's  shrines. 
The  broad  arena  in  the  centre  stood, 
Crimson  and  reeking  with  barbarian  blood, 
Drawn  by  the  lion's  fang,  the  lictor's  dart, 
And  acting  like  incense  on  the  Roman  heart. 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  gazers,  breathing  low, 
Watched  with  impatience  the  descending  blow 
That  forced  some  spirit  from  its  mortal  zone, 
And  sent  it  trembling  to  its  Maker's  throne ; 
Then  call'd  and  clamor'd  till  Orphean  strains 
Stilled  the  fierce  current  in  their  fiery  veins. 

Void  of  humanity,  it  seemed  their  aim 

To  drug  with  human  woes  their  draught  of  fame, 

They,  with  a  force  which  uncurbed  passion  lends, 

Oppressed  the  world,  to  further  private  ends ; 

And  so,  at  length,  impelled  by  savage  greed, 

Outstepped  the  limit  Nature's  laws  decreed, 

And  wrung  from  sacred  heaven  that  direful  fate, 

Which  humbled  Rome  in  all  her  strength  elate. 

Alaric  came  to  vent  with  sword  and  fire, 

On  Pagan  heads  the  Lord's  avenging  ire ; 

God's  Chast'ning  rod  was  he,  surcharged  with  doom, 

That  smote  those  savage  games  in  all  the  pride  of  bloom. 


SONGS,   SONANTS  AND   ESSAYS  13 


PART  II 

\1  7 HEN  Luna  shed  her  melancholy  light 

O'er  this  vast  ruin,  and  peoples  all  the  night. 
With  spectral  forms,  the  wand'ring  poet's  brain 
Fills  the  wide  space  with  yelling  crowds  again ; 
Creative  fancy  olden  acts  renew, 
And  former  scenes  come  thronging  to  his  view. 
His  bosom  heaves,  he  sheds  a  pitying  tear 
For  poor  barbarians,  brought  from  Finland  here ; 
Torn  from  their  native  springs,  their  forest  home, 
To  glut  the  cravings  of  licentious  Rome. 
Young  Christians  kneeling  on  the  crimsoned  sands, 
Raise  to  high  heaven  their  wistful  eyes.     In  bands, 
Scorning  alike  the  emperor's  smile  and  frown, 
Reject  they  the  ermine  for  the  martyr's  Crown. 

Where  once  the  sands  were  dyed  with  human  blood. 

Now  hostile  navies  sweep  along  the  flood. 

He  sees  them  grapple,  whirl  their  flashing  spears, 

Tumultuous  shouts  are  sounding  in  his  ears ; 

Anon  the  galleys,  red  with  human  gore, 

Sink  'neath  their  crews,  alas !  to  rise  no  more, 

And  drowning  wretches,  crying  for  aid  aloud, 

Receive  but  jeers  from  the  encircling  crowd. 


14  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

The  floods  recede,  and  vernal  woods  appear ; 
Wherein  are  crouched  the  "  forest  king  "  and  bear ; 
Where  flitting  birds  of  gaudy  plumage  sing, 
And  sparkling  fountains  from  their  sources  spring, 
Where  the  rich  lawns  mirror  the  countless  dyes 
That  fleck  the  azure  of  Italia's  skies. 


PART  III 

T^HUS,  the  young  poet,  through  fancy's  golden  maze, 
Roams,  laughs  and  weeps  mid  scenes  of  other  days  ; 
Now  sips  the  cup  of  visionary  joy, 
Brimful  of  hope  and  bliss  without  alloy. 
But  as  the  joy  that  most  substantial  seems 
Breaks  from  our  grasp,  like  sparks  from  meteor  beams, 
Alas,  doth  bliss  evanish !  The  shrill  screams 
Of  the  night  owl  arouse  him  from  his  dreams, 
And  starting  up  he  sees  the  silent  moon 
Gaze  softly  down  the  vast  expanse  of  ruin  ; 
Then  slowly  spake  he  —  thus  his  stanzas  ran  : 
"  How  frail,  how  faulty  is  the  work  of  man  ! 
How  fleeting  joy,  how  fickle  power  and  health ! 
How  false  is  pride  and  how  deceiving  wealth ! 
You  Celean  hills  as  full  and  firmly  stand 
As  when  just  moulded  by  the  Maker's  hand, 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  15 

The  rushing  Tiber  flows  with  force  unspent, 

As  when  Rome's  founder  gazed  from  out  his  tent 

On  its  bright  bosom,  spreading  far  and  wide, 

Or  led  his  flocks  along  its  cooling  tide ; 

While  this  huge  wreck,  the  climax  of  man's  power, 

'Neath  Time's  corroding  breath,  is  wasting  hour  by  hour. 

Where  stilted  Trajan  reared  his  haughty  head, 
The  busy  spider  spins  his  glossy  thread ; 
And  hooting  owls  in  nightly  broils  engage, 
Where  proud  Commodus  reddened  into  rage : 
The  swiftly  swallows,  the  silent  sable  bat, 
Usurp  the  arches  'neath  which  Titus  sat. 

Ye  Kings  of  Commerce,  ye  who  gaze  with  pride, 
On  fertile  acres,  stretching  far  and  wide ; 
Who  would  oppress  the  wealth-producing  poor, 
Ponder  the  fate  of  those  who  ruled  of  yore, 
From  Obe's  tide  to  Britain's  western  shore. 

Observant  man  who  studies  Nature's  laws 
And  deeply  thinks  this  one  deduction  draws : 
All  works  of  Art,  no  matter  how  sublime, 
Shrink  from  the  touch  of  all-subduing  time  ; 
While  those  of  Nature  —  ocean,  dale  and  steep, 
Sky,  sun  and  stars  —  the  Godhead's  impress  keep. 


i6 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


Then  how  account  for  Rome's  unequalled  age, 
Her  sisters'  fall  illumines  History's  page  ? 
Greece,  Carthage,  Antioch,  Syria,  —  all 
Who  lived  ere  she  was  conqueror  of  Gaul, 
Have  slunk  beneath  the  fertile  fibrous  plains, 
But  she  of  all  the  ancient  throng  remains  ? 

A  simple  Cross,  the  symbol  sign  of  Truth, 

Though  old  in  years,  in  strength  a  wondrous  youth, 

Is  poised  whereon  '  Colossal  of  the  sun.' 

The  culminating  height  of  Rome's  dominion  shone; 

And,  after  centuries  of  Mortal  strife, 

Reveals  the  mystery  of  Rome's  immortal  life." 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


CLOUNTREEM 

T   KNOW  a  dell  where  torrents  well 

All  crystal,  cool  and  clear ; 
Where  swallows  wing  and  throstles  sing 

Throughout  the  circling  year ; 
And  sweet  perfume  of  flowers  in  bloom 

Makes  fragrant  all  things  there. 

A  streamlet  strays  from  creeks  and  bays 

Down  o'er  its  emerald  leas, 
And,  as  it  flows,  weird  tales  of  woes 

Tis  babbling  to  the  breeze 
That  flits  and  sings,  and  wildly  rings, 

Like  minstrels  in  the  trees. 

Ah  !  when  a  youth,  I  loved  in  sooth, 
Among  those  scenes  to  stray, 

And  truant  oft,  I  climbed  aloft 
The  tapering  hills  all  day, 

Which  o'er  those  dells  like  sentinels, 
Look  down  on  Bantry  Bay. 


i8 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


MA  COLLEEN  DHAS  CRUTHA 

NA  MO 


T^HE  sun  in  his  lustre  is  bathing 

The  heather  on  summit  and  steep, 
And  gilding  the  ivy  unfading, 

That  twines  round  each  mouldering  keep, 
As  proudly  our  fleet  ship  is  sailing, 

Away  o'er  the  ocean's  bright  glow 
That  bears  me  from  thee  and  dear  Erin, 

Ma  Colleen  dhas  crutha  na  mo. 

Before  me  in  splendor  are  towering, 

The  sea-beaten  cliffs  of  the  south, 
Which,  oft-times  of  old  had  re-echoed 

O'Sullivan's  fierce  battle  shout; 
But  soon  from  my  sight  they'll  be  waning, 

As  westward  in  sorrow  I  go, 
Afar  from  the  hills  of  my  sireland, 

Ma  Colleen  dhas  crutha  na  mo. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  19 

Oh  !  fair  is  the  scene,  by  the  twilight, 

That  stretches  from  Cove  to  Fercail, 
But  bitter  the  thoughts  of  the  exile 

When  leaving  his  loved  Innisfail ; 
And  bitter  and  briny  the  quick  tears, 

That  down  o'er  my  lone  bosom  flow, 
For  Ireland  in  distance  is  fading, 

Ma  Colleen  dhas  crutha  na  mo. 

What  torrents  of  bliss  filled  by  bosom, 

And  love -light  flashed  forth  from  your  eye, 
That  eve  when  by  Dermod's  old  castle, 

You  called  me  your  patriot  boy  ; 
And  bade  me  go  forth  to  do  battle 

While  one  of  the  Sassenach  foe 
Polluted  the  valleys  of  Erin 

Ma  Colleen  dhas  crutha  na  mo. 

We  fought,  but  how  vain  were  our  efforts 

To  sever  the  bonds  of  the  slave ! 
And  thus  we've  been  banished  forever 

Away  o'er  Atlantic's  blue  wave ; 
But  memory  within  me  shall  mirror 

Thine  image  wherever  I  go, 
And  that  of  the  land  of  my  fathers, 

Ma  Colleen  dhas  crutha  na  mo. 


20  SONGS,   SONA'E7"S  AND   ESSAYS 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    SOLILOQUY 

A  N  old  man  stood  on  the  shelving  shore 

Neath  the  heat  of  a  summers  day, 
With  furrowed  cheek  and  wrinkled  brow 

And  locks  of  silvery  gray  ; 
And  he  gazed  with  an  ardent  wistful  gaze, 

O'er  the  ocean's  blue  expanse 
Where  the  amber  light  of  the  radiant  sun 
On  the  wavelets  seemed  to  dance. 


And  thus  he  spoke  in  sorrowing  mood, 

As  he  bent  his  princely  head  : 
"  Where  yon  clouds  dip  in  the  sparkling  sea 

Have  my  darling  bouchals  sped, 
For  they  hated  the  yoke  of  a  foreign  power, 

And  its  clink  on  our  plunder'd  plains 
Made  the  rebel  blood,  from  their  manly  hearts, 

Rush  red  through  their  youthful  veins. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  21 

Ah  me  !  to  think  on  that  morning  fair 

When  to  their  blighted  home 
They  bade  adieu,  and  turned  away, 

O'er  distant  climes  to  roam. 
They  shaped  their  course  to  the  glowing  West, 

Where  Atlantic  seeks  the  strand, 
And  the  farmer  reaps  as  he  tills  and  sows, 

In  a  bright  and  prosp'rous  land. 

He  comes  not  yet,  though  he  said  he'd  come 

When  the  seasons  thrice  had  rolled ; 
When  Nature  thrice,  in  her  mantle  green, 

Decked  mountain  and  fibrous  wold. 
Ah  !  Fortune  frowned  on  my  bouchal  baun, 

Though  he  courted  her  fickle  smile, 
And  he  bent  his  steps  to  the  setting  sun 

Far  away  from  his  own  Green  Isle. 

And  now  they  will  lay  me  down  to  sleep 

In  a  grave  by  yonder  dun 
Ere  the  pulse  of  my  heart  is  homeward  bound 

From  the  land  of  the  setting  sun. 
Yet  some  day  over  my  grave  he'll  kneel 

And  filial  tears  will  start 
When  these  longing  arms  no  more  can  fold 

That  son  to  this  aching  heart." 


22  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

ST.    PATRICK'S    DAY 

P HOUGH  far  from  thy  valleys,  dear  Erin,  we  roam 

In  this  freedom  bless'd  land  by  the  Western  Ocean, 
We  love  the  Green  Island,  our  Country  and  Home, 

With  a  filial,  fond  and  undying  devotion. 
Fair  land  of  our  fathers,  how  dearly  we  love  thee ! 
Bright  home  of  the  gifted,  the  gallant  and  gay, 
We  cherish  thy  shores  and  the  blue  sky  above  thee 
Wherever  we  wander  on  Patrick's  Day. 

While  Scotland  and  Wales,  'neath  the  heel  of  the  Norman, 

In  willing  submission  lay  prone  and  supine 
Thy  daughters  and  sons,  both  at  home  and  in  exile, 

Have  proved  their  devotion  at  Liberty's  shrine. 
When  the  gallant  Colonials,  camped  about  Boston, 

Drove  the  black-hearted  red  coats  of  Howe  from  the  Bay 
The  sons  of  Gael  bore  the  brunt  of  the  battle, 

And  Washington's  watchword  was  "  Patrick's  Day." 

Let  the  stout  Caledonians  fatten  the  fetters, 

The  Cambrians  forfeit  their  right  to  be  free ; 
But  a  son  of  proud  Erin  shall  never  surrender, 

Nor  bend  to  a  tyrant  "the  suppliant  knee." 
We  have  kept  the  Green  Banner  of  freedom  unfurled, 

Though  ofttimes  defeated  ;  we'll  keep  it  for  aye, 
'Till  our  sons,  scattered  far  o'er  the  lands  of  the  world, 

Shall  hail  it  triumphant  on  Patrick's  Day. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  23 

By  the  shades  of  the  stout-hearted  chieftains  of  Erie, 

The  martyred  Fitzgerald,  brave  Emmet  and  Tone, 
By  the  graves  of  our  dead  from  Dungannon  to  Beara, 

And  the  wrecks  which  the  red-handed  Britain  has  strewn, 
We'll  never  surrender  our  Isle  to  the  stranger 

Nor  yield  to  a  title  of  Sassenach  sway, 
But  fight  to  defend  her  through  famine  and  danger 

'Till  stands  she  erect  upon  Patrick's  Day. 

*  *  * 

THE   SONGS    OF   OUR   LAND 

f"*  O,  roam  where  you  will  through  the  civilized  nations, 

From  grim  keeps  of  winter  to  summer's  bright  zone, 
And  still  it  will  greet  you  in  sweet  intonations  — 

"  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer  left  blooming  alone  ! " 
Ye  sons  of  the  Muse  that  illumine  our  pages  — 

Moore,  Mahoney,  Davis,  and  Callinan  grand  — 
Your  names  shall  go  down  thro'  the  long  coming  ages 

Enshrined  in  the  beautiful  songs  of  our  land. 
Dear  children  of  Nature,  sweet  bards  of  our  Island, 

Balfe,  Mangan,  and  Lover  and  Griffin  sublime, 
Your  songs  are  a  beacon  that  gleams  from  the  highland, 

"  A  rainbow  of  hope,"  through  the  vistas  of  Time. 
You  may  roam  through  the  universe,  mix  with  the  races 

From  the  Orient  sky  to  the  Occident  strand, 
And  still  you  shall  hear,  'mid  all  people  and  places, 

The  soul-stirring,  sweet-sounding  songs  of  our  Land. 


24  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


ROBARD 

T   ENVY  thee  thy  lot,  Robard, 

In  consecrated  earth 
Thou  sleepest  'neath  the  Shamrock  sward 

In  thine  own  land  of  birth ; 
And  after  years  of  exile  spent, 

Far  in  the  golden  West, 
Thy  motherland  doth  fold  thee  fond 

To  her  enraptured  breast. 

Those  song  birds,  dearly  loved  in  youth. 

Make  vibrant  all  the  air  ; 
The  flora  of  thy  sunny  South 

Is  round  thee  ev'rywhere, 
And  the  river  of  the  valley 

We  roamed,  when  young  and  free  — 
The  Kista  —  chants  thy  requiem  ere 

It  murmurs  to  the  sea. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  25 

While  in  a  clime  where  Winter  grim 

A  long,  long  vigil  keeps, 
Far  from  his  home,  thy  bosom  friend, 

The  noble  Dermod  sleeps, 
And  I,  a  pilgrim,  bent  beneath 

A  weary  weight  of  years, 
Am  left  of  that  triumvirate 

To  roam  this  vale  of  tears. 

In  early  youth  we  left  our  home, 

Impelled  by  dangers  grim, 
And  sought  the  land  of  Massasoit 

Beyond  the  Ocean's  rim. 
Thence,  lured  by  lust  of  gold  and  fame, 

We  traversed  fields  afar, 
Until  we  reached  these  coasts  beneath 

The  bright  Hesperian  star ; 

And  there,  amid  the  sunset  slopes, 

Came  bright  and  blissful  days, 
Until,  alas  !  the  fates  decreed 

A  parting  of  our  ways. 
Dost  know  that  I,  returned  once  more, 

With  tear-dimmed  eyes  to-day 
Intone  my  Miserere  o'er 

Thy  tenement  of  clay  ? 


26  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

Rest  calmly  by  the  Kista's  wave  ; 

The  sordid  ones  of  earth 
Who  kneel  beside  thy  hallowed  grave 

Can  ill  appraise  thy  worth  : 
They  little  knew  the  wealth  of  love, 

The  purpose  pure  and  high 
That  deep  within  thy  bosom  strove, 

In  summer  days  gone  by. 

With  all  the  constancy  of  fate, 

You  wrought  to  raise  this  land 
High  to  her  former  proud  estate, 

Among  the  nations  grand  : 
The  patriot  ardor  of  thy  soul 

On  mine  was  fondly  set ; 
The  exile's  cares  of  thirty  years 

Have  not  effaced  it  yet. 

Farewell,  Robard,  adieu  for  I, 

Far  from  the  Kista's  wave, 
Must  find  beneath  some  foreign  sky 

A  mute  unlettered  grave  ; 
But  we  shall  meet,  my  friend  of  yore, 

"  Philosopher  and  guide," 
Where  kindred  spirits  part  no  more, 

Beyond  the  Great  Divide. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  27 


MORTY    OGE 


The  subjoined  verses  are  translated  from  a  Gaelic  narrative  poem, 
supposed  to  have  been  composed  by  Owen  Roe  O'Sullivan,  who  won  con- 
siderable fame  on  the  borders  of  Cork  and  Kerry  in  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century. 

The  revolting  deed  which  the  poem  commemorates  is  still  a  fresh  tradition 
among  the  inhabitants  of  that  picturesque  territory  that  lies  between  the 
Kenmare  River,  Bantry  Bay  and  the  Dursey  Sound.  Mortimer  O'Suilivan, 
commonly  called  "  Morty  Oge,"  was  the  last  chief  of  the  O'Sullivans  of 
Beare.  He  served  with  distinction  in  the  wars  of  Maria  Theresa  of  Austria. 

After  the  battle  of  Fontenoy,  in  1745,  he  joined  the  Irish  Brigade  in  the 
service  of  France  with  the  hope  of  one  day  recovering  his  ancestral  home 
and  patrimony  in  the  barony  of  Beara. 

While  recruiting  in  the  South  of  Ireland  for  the  Brigade  which  had  lost 
so  heavily  on  that  famous  Belgian  battlefield,  he  got  into  difficulties  with  the 
revenue  officer  of  the  British  Government,  who  at  that  time  occupied  the 
home  of  the  O'Sullivans,  the  Castle  of  Dunboy. 

O'Sullivan,  whose  reputation  for  skill  and  bravery  in  battle  was  well 
known  along  the  wild  coasts  and  in  the  glens  of  his  native  barony,  com- 
manded a  fast  sailing  brigantine  in  which  he  took  back  to  the  Coast  of  France 
the  very  flower  of  the  Irish  peasantry  who,  in  all  ages,  had  a  love  for  war  and 
adventure.  The  work  of  recruiting  might  have  gone  on  indefinitely,  without 
any  action  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Puxley,  the  revenue  official  in  those  parts,  were 
it  not  that  a  company  of  Irish  soldiers,  in  the  English  service,  left  their  bar- 
racks, in  Cork,  where  they  were  awaiting  transportation  beyond  the  sea, 
hastened  across  the  mountains  to  an  inlet  of  the  Kenmare  River,  joined  the 
standard  of  the  young  Irish  Chief  and  sailed  away  to  France. 

The  government  naturally  became  alarmed  and  Puxley  was  severely 
censured.  Needless  to  say  that  he  now  increased  the  number  of  his  yeomen 
and  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  the  return  of  the  Clan  Na  Dara.  This  was  the 
name  given  by  the  Irish  Chief  to  his  brigantine,  fitted  out  by  the  French 
government  for  the  transportation  of  the  wild  geese.  To  prove  to  the 
English  officials -in  Ireland  his  vigilance  and  activity,  Mr.  Puxley  shot  down, 
with  his  own  hand,  an  aged  uncle  of  Morty  Oge. 

On  the  return  of  the  Clan  Na  Dara,  Colonel  O'Sullivan  was  shocked  by 
the  news  of  his  uncle's  fate.  Leaving  his  ship  in  Coulach  Bay,  he  mounted 
his  horse  and  crossing  over  a  spur  of  the  Caha  hills,  reached  Dunboy,  the 
home  of  the  revenue  officer,  just  in  time  to  find  him  mounted  for  his  morn- 
ing's ride.  The  meeting  was  sudden;  the  salutation  short  and  fatal.  At 
the  first  exchange  of  shots,  Puxley  fell  lifeless  from  his  horse  in  the  presence 
of  his  wife. 

Retracting  his  journey  across  the  mountains,  O'Sullivan  reached  his  ship 
in  safety,  and  with  a  second  cargo  of  wild  geese,  was  soon  scudding  under 
full  sail  to  the  shores  of  la  belle  France. 


28  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


The  fact  that  Puxley  had  murdered  his  uncle  did  not  justify  the  act  of 
the  avenger ;  but  there  was  no  other  means  of  redress  in  those  evil  days  when 
the  native  population  were  shot  down  like  beasts  of  prey,  if  they  dared  to 
assert  their  rights.  The  cohorts  of  the  invader  rode  rough  shod  over  the 
rights  of  the  original  owners  of  the  land,  and  there  was  no  other  way  of 
obtaining  redress  for  grievances,  save  by  an  appeal  of  force. 


'"THE  bitter  winds  of  hoary  March  were  lashing  sky  and 

main, 
And    lightnings    flashed  thro'  heaven's    arch    mid    tempest, 

clouds  and  rain, 
As  through  the  brightness  and  the  gloom,  amid  the  splashing 

spray, 
A  cutter  swept  round  Mizen  Head,  and  into  Bantry  Bay. 


On  deck  Walter  Fitzsimmon  stood,  a  wiley  Norman  Thief, 
A  tiger  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  Clan  Na  Dara's  Chief. 
Around  him  are  his  hireling  yeos,  a  God  forsaken  pack  — 
Beware  tonight,  brave  Morty  Oge,  those  thieves  are  on  your 
track. 


Beware   young  Chief    before  whose  blows   proud  Austria's 

foemen  reeled, 
Whose  sword  has  turned  the  tide  of  war  on  many  a  foreign 

field; 

Whose  Celtic  skill  and  valor  well  upheld  the  Austrian  Crown 
When  Europe's  proudest  despot  hand  would  fain  have  torn 

it  down. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  29 

1  Tis  midnight  now ;  the  storm  has  ceased ;  the  rain  comes 

gently  down, 

And  naught  beside  the  baying  dog  is  heard  in  Castletown. 
Straight  to  old  Dermott's  ancient  keep  the  skulking  yeomen 

steer ; 
Then  with  a  oath  ascend  Miscush,  dark,  rugged,  cold  and  bare. 

On  through  the  stillness  and  the  gloom  those  mighty  demons 
stride, 

By  brush  and  broom,  through  glen  and  coom,  o'er  plain  and 
mountain  side  ; 

Nor  halt  they  for  the  boistrous  brook,  nor  check  their  head- 
long pace 

But  forward  press  to  seize  their  prey,  like  beagles  in  the  chase. 

And  now  falls  on  their  guilty  ears  the  booming  of  the  brine, 
As  dimly  through  the  night  appears  Cille  Catherine's  holy 

shrine. 

Where  all  around  in  hut  and  hall  the  guileless  peasants  sleep  : 
Without  the  dogs  from  stack  and  sty  a  wary  vigil  keep. 

Hark  to  their  shrill  alarm  now !     The  inmates  up  and  out 
As  round  the  cottage,  front  and  rear  the  savage  yeomen  shout. 
Within  stood  brave  O'Sullivan,  by  Scully's"*  greed  betrayed  ; 
His  powder  wet,  without  defence,  save  his  good  Austrian  blade. 


*  Scully.      A  tradition  states   that  Scull}',   his   trusty   man,   betrayed 
O'Sullivan  by  wetting  his  powder. 


30  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

Beneath  the  eaves  those  cowardly  yeos  thrust  flaming  brands 

of  fire ; 
Then  roof  and  thatch,  in  lurid  light,  blazed  like  an  Indian 

pyre. 
With  sword  in  hand  against  the  band  of  brigands  forth  he 

prest 
And  two  stout  yeos  in  mortal  throes  before  him  bit  the  dust. 

A  one-eyed  yeoman  hidden  in  a  nearby  live  oak  tree, 
With  his  unerring  rifle  set  the  Chieftain's  spirit  free ; 
And  thus  fell  gallant  Morty  Oge  with  trusty  sword  in 

hand  :  — 
He  died  as  did  his  noble  sires,  for  Faith  and  Fatherland. 

With  fiendish  jest  and  ribaldry  the  yeos  retrace  their  course 
Bearing  along  the  murdered  chief  athwart  a  boney  horse. 
Dunbuie  is  reached  ;  thence  through  the  tide  to  Cork's  fair 

town  they  trail 
His  mangled  corpse,  and  spike  his  head   above  the  North 

Cork  jail. 

Aye,  mock  us   aliens,  as  you  will,  but  by  that    Chieftain's 

hand 
Yourselves  and  all  your  hireling  crew  we'll  chase  from  off 

the  land, 

And  flaunt  our  olden  battle  flags  o'er  bay  and  mountain  blue 
With  that  old  war-inspiring  shout,  "  Lav  Feeston  hous  abu." 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  31 

When  Celtic  bands  from  foreign  lands  again  shall  homeward 

come, 
And  legions  bound,  and  hills  resound  to  voice  of  harp  and 

drum  ; 
When  pales  with  fear  each  Norman  peer   and  quails   each 

Saxon  rogue, 
'Tis  then    a  vengeance  stern  we'll  have    for   the    death  of 

Morty  Oge. 


LAW   AND    LIBERTY 

f~\  LAW,  thou  shield  of  liberty, 
God's  light  is  on  thy  brow  ; 
O  Liberty,  thou  life  of  law, 

God's  very  self  art  thou  ; 
Twin  daughters  of  the  bleeding  past, 

The  hope  the  prophets  saw ; 
God  give  us  law  in  liberty, 

And  liberty  in  law. 


32  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


FAREWELL,    FAREWELL,    MY 
NATIVE    HOME 

FAREWELL,  farewell,  my  native  home, 

By  Cleena's  darkly  swelling  foam  ; 
The  tyrants  say  that  I  must  roam 

Across  the  stormy  water. 
I  love  my  country  as  my  Lord, 
For  which  they  mete  the  dark  award 
Of  exile  from  my  native  sward 

The  gibbet,  cell  or  slaughter. 

O,  Deremihan  !  farewell  to  you, 
Betwixt  the  bay  and  mountains  blue, 
And  to  thy  breezy  height  of  view 

Where  first  I  saw  the  morning. 
Of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  most, 
Wild  hamlet  of  the  fairy  coast ; 
Nor  can  Columbia's  realms  boast 

Of  scenes  more  fair  and  charming. 

No  more,  my  loyal  comrades  brave, 
We  meet  beside  the  glowing  wave, 
And  vow  our  hallow'd  land  to  save, 
Or  fall  with  deathless  glory  : 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


33 


We  seek  no  more  the  thrilling  chase, 
The  ride,  the  jump,  the  swim,  the  race- 
But  naught,  save  death,  can  e'er  efface 
Their  fondly  cherished  story. 

Exult  you  children  who  can  stay 
Among  those  scenes  so  wild  and  gay 
Of  olden  fanes  and  castles  gray ; 

Pride  of  the  Christian  era : 
Where  balmy  breezes  murmur  through 
The  waving  corn  of  golden  hue  : 
Poor,  homeless  Celt,  they're  not  for  you 

Adieu,  my  sunny  Beara. 


34  SONGS,  SOATNE7"S  AND   ESSAYS 


RETURNING   TO    ERIN 

TOY,  joy!  Our  ship  is  cleaving  now 

Old  Cleena's  sparkling  water, 
Where  Carew  sailed,  in  the  reign  of  Bess, 

With  the  dark  intent  of  slaughter. 
Lo  !  in  the  light  of  the  amber  dawn 

A  hundred  shining  fountains 
Come  glimmering  through  the  morning  mist 
From  Beara's  tapering  mountains. 

The  Dursey  Head  heaves  full  in  view, 

Fercael  leaps  out  to  meet  us, 
And  old  Cean  Salds  battered  points 

Spring  up  as  if  to  greet  us. 
O  glorious  sight,  O  radiant  dawn, 

O  morn  of  joy  and  gladness  ! 
This  wanderer's  heart  is  well  repaid 

For  many  a  day  of  sadness. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  35 

'Tis  many  a  year  since  I  beheld 

That  scene,  which  seemed  elysian  - 
The  shoreline  of  my  native  land 

Slow  sinking  from  my  vision. 
But  isn't  it  blissful  now  to  see 

That  shore-line  growing  nearer  — 
And  feel  the  breath  of  my  native  heath, 

By  absence  long  made  dearer  ! 

Hail  lovely  Erin,  Motherland, 

While  wandering  lone  and  weary 
I've  yearned  for  thee,  aroon  machree, 

Beyond  the  Western  Prairie. 
Hail  dauntless  Erin,  Motherland 

Of  Grattan,  Burke,  O'Connell, 
Of  great  Red  Hugh  and  Owen  Roe 

And  ardent  Aegh  O'Donnell. 

A  million  martyrs  died  for  thee 

And  proved  their  deep  devotion, 
On  battle  plain  and  scaffold  tree, 

Dear  Emerald  of  the  ocean  ; 
And  millions,  in  the  land  I've  left, 

Who  love  thee,  still  are  yearning 
To  aid  thy  fearless  sons  at  home, 

Who  keep  the  "beacons  burning/' 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


Home  of  my  youth,  of  love  and  truth, 

Of  all  my  youth's  relations, 
Albeit  thou  art  called,  in  sooth, 

The  Niobe  of  nations  ; 
Thy  exiled  children  love  thee  still 

The  more  for  thy  defiance 
To  rack-rent  rule,  and  tryant  hate 

And  Britain's  base  alliance. 

Though  famine-fever's  ghastly  hand 

Thou'st  felt  in  hut  and  hovel, 
Thou  wouldst  not  yield,  ill  fated  land, 

Nor  to  the  tyrant  grovel. 
Stand  firm  for  Faith  and  Freedom  still 

O  trampled  Isle  of  Beauty  ! 
Resistance  to  a  despot's  will 

Is  man's  most  sacred  duty. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  37 


HURRAH    FOR    THE    SWORD 
AND    RIFLE! 

"THE    VOICE    AND    PEN" 

What  burst  the  chain  far  over  the  main 

And  brightened  the  captive's  den? 
'Twas  the  fearless  pen  and  the  voice  of  power  — 
Hurrah  for  the  Voice  and  Pen! 

Hurrah  1 
Hurrah  for  the  Voice  and  Pen  ! 

—  DENIS  FLORENCE  MACCARTHY. 

A  \J  HEN  the  foe  accurst  on  our  Island  first 

His  ruthless  legions  flung, 
Their  arms  were  then  the  swords  of  men, 

Not  the  Orator's  flaming  tongue. 
Wouldst  thou  rejoice  o'er  the  nation's  weal 

And  her  Senate  house  restore, 
To  her  foes  appeal  through  the  flash  of  steel 

And  the  "murderous  cannon's  roar." 
Hurrah  for  the  sword,  the  gleaming  sword  ! 

With  which  no  tyrants  trifle, 
And  the  men  who  fight  in  the  cause  of  right, 

With  sabre  and  flashing  rifle  ! 


38  SO.VGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

How  canst  thou  say,  in  the  light  of  day, 

That  the  Voice  and  the  Pen  have  broken 
The  chains  accurst,  where  of  Freedom  first 

Hath  Patrick  Henry  spoken  ? 
His  words  were  feeble,  fruitless,  vain, 

Were  there  no  swords  to  aid  them, 
No  fearless  men  from  town  and  glen, 

No  Washington  to  lead  them. 
Hurrah  for  the  sword,  the  gleaming  sword ! 

With  which  no  tyrants  trifle, 
And  the  men  who  fight,  in  the  cause  of  right, 

With  sabre  and  flashing  rifle  ! 

Of  such  tame  stuff  we've  had  enough, 

O  genial  bard  of  Erin  ! 
For  our  Birthright  we'll  have  to  fight 

In  battle  strong  and  daring  ; 
To  break  that  yoke  we  must  evoke 

The  battle's  Voice  and  thunder 
Which  cultured  "  men  of  voice  and  pen  " 

Have  failed  to  burst  asunder. 
Hurrah  for  the  sword,  the  gleaming  sword  ! 

With  which  no  tyrants  trifle, 
And  the  men  who  fight,  in  the  cause  of  right, 

With  sabre  and  flashing  rifle ! 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


39 


When  the  foe  accurst  on  our  Island  first 

His  ruthless  legions  flung, 
Their  arms  were  then  the  swords  of  men. 

Not  the  Orator's  flaming  tongue. 
Wouldst  thou  rejoice  o'er  the  nation's  weal 

And  her  Senate  house  restore, 
To  her  foes  appeal  through  the  flash  of  steel 

And  the  "  murderous  cannon's  roar." 
Hurrah  for  the  sword,  the  gleaming  sword  ! 

With  which  no  tyrants  trifle, 
And  the  men  who  fight  for  sacred  right, 

With  sabre  and  flashing  rifle  ! 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


THE   EXILE'S    RETURN 

T    OW  sank  the  sun  beneath  the  Caha  hills, 

Leaving  a  mellow  light  on  land  and  sea, 
As  a  lone  stranger  from  a  foreign  shore 

Paused  'mid  the  storied  wreck  of  grand  Dunbuie. 
In  such  a  place  must  poet-patriot  feel 

Emotions  welling  to  his  trembling  lips, 
Treading  alone  the  sacred  mound  where  sleep 

Ingus,  the  bard,  and  "  Donal  of  the  ships." 

Swift  sped  the  sun  o'er  half  the  convex  earth, 

And  morning  flashed  along  the  Eastern  waves, 
As  the  lone  stranger  from  a  distant  shore 

In  Cille  Finane  knelt  o'er  two  new  made  graves 
Chanting  a  de  Profundis  for  the  souls 

Whose  mortal  tenements  are  silent  there, 
Awaiting  'till  Gabriel's  trumpet  blast 

Peals  from  the  clouds  and  rolls  from  sphere  to  sphere. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  41 

Where  fast  by  Castle  Dermod's  ruined  keep 

Nestles  his  native  town  secure  from  storm, 
And  the  blue  bay  mirrors  the  darkling  hills 

That  cluster  round  in  grand  theatric  form, 
He  stood  by  the  "  Patriot's  try  sting  rock  " 

And  thus  soliloquized  :  "  In  this  lone  wood 
Full  oft  we  met,  ye  brave  and  gallant  few, 

Who've  nobly  kept  the  faith  in  nationhood." 

These  are  the  haunts  that  erst  I  dearly  loved 

While  yet  a  blithe  and  listless  youth.     'Twas  here 
I  learned  to  lisp  my  hallowed  country's  name, 

And  con  the  history  of  her  sad  career. 
Then  was  I  charmed  by  Bauba's  bardic  lays 

Or  what  my  breast  could  still  more  warmly  fire, 
The  sweet  symphonies  of  these  latter  days, 

Young  Ireland's  muse,  or  Moore's  enchanting  lyre. 

What  sad  vicissitudes  hath  time,  since  then, 

Among  the  dwellers  of  this  hamlet  wrought ; 
My  aged  friends  have  passed  unto  the  tomb ; 

My  schoolmates,  homes  in  distant  climes  have  sought, 
And  here,  alone,  at  twilight's  mellow  hour, 

Sad  and  unknown,  in  pensive  mood  I  stand 
Gazing  around  on  old  ancestral  halls  — 

A  homeless  stranger  in  my  native  land. 


42  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

Homeless,  'tis  true,  yet  not  a  stranger  here  ; 

The  sparkling  fountains  seem  to  murmur,  l  Hail,' 
And  out  from  each  grove  the  speckled  throstles  sing 

Ceade  Millie  failthe  back  to  Innisfail ; 
And  fond  Erinna  smiles  to  see  me  come, 

My  first  and  only  love  who  still  appears, 
Through  care  and  grief  and  feudal  lordlings  hate, 

A  widowed  beauty  smiling  thro'  her  tears. 

God  of  our  Fathers,  have  we  cried  in  vain 

To  thee  our  Lord  for  succor  arid  for  hope  — 
Nerve  Erin's  arm  as  thou  didst  Judith's  hand, 

To  dye  with  tyrant's  blood  Bethulia's  slope. 
Look  down  and  see  with  what  Satanic  pride 

Britannia  fain  thy  glory  would  eclipse  ; 
For  she's  the  harlot  on  the  Scarlet  beast 

Foretold  by  John  in  the  Apocalypse. 

Creative  Power,  when  Nature's  morning  dawned, 

And  from  Atlantic's  swell  green  Erin  rose, 
Was  it  ordained  in  Thy  divine  decree 

That  she  should  be  the  future  Isle  of  woes  ? 
When  shall  that  Niobe,  bereft  of  woe, 

Wreathe  her  old  harp  and  chant  a  joyful  song  ? 
Yet  must  her  children  mournful  exiles  stray 

On  foreign  shores  ;  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ? 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  43 


AN    EXILE'S    PRAYER 

THROUGH  I  have  won  an  honor'd  name, 

True  friends  and  wealth  galore  ; 
A  free-born  people's  proud  acclaim 

On  this  bright  alien  shore, 
I  feel  the  sadness  of  my  lot  — 

An  exile  far  away  — 
And  pine  for  thee,  my  native  spot, 

Upon  St.  Patrick's  Day. 

Oh  for  an  hour,  this  hallowed  morn, 

'Mid  Erin's  pleasant  vales, 
I'd  give  this  fruitful  western  land 

Its  gold  and  tropic  gales  ; 
My  life  I'd  gladly  give  to  see 

In  war-like  vast  array, 
Thy  patriot  sons  'neath  Emerald  folds 

Upon  St.  Patrick's  Day. 


44  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

I  love  the  Union's  starry  flag 

Have  sealed  it  with  my  blood, 
When,  on  the  slopes  of  Malvern  Hill, 

Our  Irish  legions  stood  ; 
But  when  the  hurtling  bullets  flew, 

Where  surged  the  deadly  fray, 
I  pray'd  to  strike,  my  land,  for  you 

On  some  St.  Patrick's  Day. 

Great  "  God  of  Armies,"  thou  dost  see 

How  hapless  Erin  stands ! 
Her  friends  divided  and  as  weak 

As  uncemented  sands  ! 
Send  her  a  leader  to  unite 

Her  sons,  and  crush  for  aye, 
All  foreign  pow'r  within  her  shores, 

Upon  St.  Patrick's  Day. 

Grant,  also,  this  request  to  me, 

That  when  I  come  to  die, 
My  spirit  may  ascend  to  Thee 

Through  Munster's  glorious  sky  ; 
And  that  these  bones  be  laid  to  rest, 

With  their  ancestral  clay, 
In  that  Green  Isle,  by  freedom  blest, 

Upon  St.  Patrick's  Day. 


SONGS,  SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  45 


CHRISTMAS    MEMORIES 

AR  across  the  shimmering  ocean 

Lies  a  lonely  little  dell, 
Nestling  'mid  the  hills  of  Beara, 

Where  a  hundred  fountains  well ; 
Sylvan  slope  and  leaping  torrent, 

Verdant  glade  and  cliff  and  stream 
Make  that  lonely  mountain  hamlet 
Lovely  as  a  painter's  dream. 

There,  above  the  darkling  river, 

And  beneath  the  hillock  brown, 
Stands  the  dear  old  white  walled  school-house 

By  a  busy,  ancient  town  ; 
And  beyond  the  olden  school-house 

Stands  a  solitary  cot 
Which  in  all  my  world-wanderings, 

I  have  never  once  forgot. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

I  have  still  some  cherished  memories 

Of  the  festive  Christmas  mirth 
When  the  yule  logs  glowed  and  crackled 

In  the  ample  cottage  hearth ; 
Of  the  charms  that  made  its  precincts 

Like  another  Eden  bloom  — 
But  the  smiles  that  were  its  sunshine 

Now  are  gathered  to  the  tomb. 

And  this  weary,  weary  wanderer 

From  that  home  that  erst  was  bright 
With  weal  and  wine  and  welcome, 

On  each  blessed  Christmas  night, 
To  that  hamlet  may  return  now, 

Where  he  roamed  a  listless  boy, 
But  a  mother's  love  and  welcome 

He  may  never  more  enjoy. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  47 


THE   GREEN    ISLE    OF   THE 
CELT 

T   AM  dreaming,  nightly  dreaming 

Of  a  land  almost  divine, 
Where  a  hundred  torrents  streaming, 

In  the  radiant  sunlight  shine ; 
'Tis  a  land  where  saints  and  sages 

In  ages  flown  have  dwelt ; 
'Tis  writ  in  history's  pages, 

The  Green  Isle  of  the  Celt. 

I  am  thinking,  thinking  ever 

Of  the  scenes  'mong  which  I  strayed, 
Of  the  green  lawn,  by  the  river, 

Where  in  boyhood  oft  I  played, 
Of  the  songs  that  into  tenderness 

The  listener's  heart  would  melt, 
And  the  heroes  brave  who  died  to  save 

The  Green  Isle  of  the  Celt. 


48  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

There  the  zephyrs  softly  breathing, 

Waft  a  fragrance  o'er  the  plains, 
And  the  fadeless  ivy's  wreathing 

Round  the  ancient,  mouldering  fanes ; 
There  first  my  infant  bosom 

These  patriot  feelings  felt, 
'Mid  thy  fair  hills  and  valleys, 

Green  Island  of  the  Celt. 

I  am  pining,  pining  bitter 

For  that  land  so  heavenly  fair, 
And  the  myriad  charms  that  glitter 

In  celestial  beauty  there. 
My  bosom's  tide  shall  wet  thee, 

And  bones  to  ashes  melt, 
Ere  this  lone  heart  forget  thee, 

Dear  Green  Isle  of  the  Celt. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  49 


THE    MOUNTAIN    STREAMS 

'~PHE  mountains  streams  of  Ireland, 

How  grandly  rolling  down, 
They  dash  and  foam  through  glen  and  coom, 

By  castle,  mole  and  town. 
They  cheer  the  exile  in  his  woe, 

Who  sees  them  in  his  dreams  — 
The  streams  he  loved  long,  long  ago  — 

The  rushing  mountain  streams. 

They  waft  a  fragrant  odor  down, 

Through  many  a  sylvan  vale, 
And,  murmuring  to  the  breezes,  tell 

The  story  of  the  Gael ; 
They  saw  the  plundering  Norman  hordes 

And  heard  their  lawless  schemes 
To  bow  the  changeless  Irish  race  — 

The  bright,  eternal  streams. 


50  SONGS,  SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

Methinks  thy  ancient  bards,  oh  land  ! 

First  learned  their  tuneful  song, 
Where  those  exhaustless,  rushing  springs 

In  dazzling  beauty  throng ; 
For  yet  their  charming  voices  thrill, 

With  olden  bardic  themes, 
That  haunt  the  exile's  mem'ry  still  — 

Exhaustless  mountain  streams  ! 

Oh,  rushing  rills,  oh,  magic  streams, 

Your  absence  long  I've  mourned ; 
For  you  and  all  your  pastoral  scenes 

This  cheerless  heart  has  yearned ; 
Yet,  yet  I  hope  some  morn  to  roam 

Where  dance  the  mild  sunbeams 
Along  the  glorious  swelling  waves 

Of  Ireland's  bounding  streams. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  51 


JOSEPH    CLEBURNE'S    GRAVE 


On  a  wild  hillside  not  far  from  Virginia  City,  Nevada,  Dr.  Joseph  Cle- 
burne  lies  buried.  A  rude  paling  which  marked  the  final  resting  place  of 
this  gifted  Irish  physician  has  been  torn  up  by  one  of  those  tornadoes  that 
frequently  sweep  down  from  the  tall  summits  of  the  Sierra  Nevadas. 

Doctor  Cleburne  was  the  brother  of  General  Patrick  Cleburne  of  Con- 
federate fame.  The  family  belonged  to  County  Cork,  Ireland,  and  gave 
many  distinguished  men  to  the  arts  of  peace  and  the  havoc  of  war. 


AR  from  the  verdant  slopes  of  cove, 

'Neath  Occidental  skies, 
Where  the  rude  Indians  camp  and  rove 

Poor  Joseph  Cleburne  lies. 
Neglected  and  forgot  the  mound 

Where  rests  his  sacred  clay 
As  if  the  race  from  which  he  sprang 
Were  dead  and  passed  away. 

Coyotes  dun  o'er  Erin's  son 

May  howl  through  the  long  night ; 
The  owl  and  bat  that  dread  the  day 

Wing  their  nocturnal  flight, 
But  prayer  nor  sigh  ascends  on  high 

Nor  flowerets  fragrance  shed, 
Nor  friendly  hands  strew  green  garlands 

O'er  Joseph  Cleburne's  bed. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


THE    TOCSIN    OF   WAR 

I"    O  !  how  the  war-cloud  is  sullenly  lowering, 
And  threatens  to  burst  over  Europe  afar  ; 
Clan  Erin  assemble  !  and  grand  be  your  pouring 
When  Russia  resounds  the  dread  Tocsin  of  War. 
Soon  shall  the  Russian  Bear 
Drag  from  his  ruddy  lair 

The  tyrants  still  red  with  the  blood  of  our  sires. 
W7ake  the  old  battle  cry, 
Onward  to  do  or  die  ! 
Every  proud  Celt  who  to  freedom  aspires. 

A  bright  gleam  of  hope  Mother  Erin  caresses ; 

The  Goddess  of  Freedom  smiles  down  on  her  plains  ; 
As  the  eagle  sores  up  from  his  mountain  recesses 

Sunward  she'll  burst  thro'  the  sassenach  chains. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  53 

Sons  of  the  sturdy  North, 

Peal  the  Rosg  Caha  forth  ! 
Ye  mountains  re-echo  the  spirit  afar ! 

Sons  of  the  gallant  South, 

Fling  the  old  banner  out, 
When  Russia  resounds  the  dread  Tocsin  of  War  1 

Ye  bards  of  our  island,  wake  from  your  slumber 

To  fan  the  dull  embers  of  battle  once  more ; 
Strike  Erin's  dairsach  'till  every  wild  number 
Be  heard  by  her  sons  on  each  far-distant  shore. 

Spirit  of  Shears  and  Tone, 

Hark  to  the  Britons'  groan  ! 
The  highway  to  freedom  no  tyrant  can  bar. 

Join  every  Celtic  clan, 

Erin's  avenging  van, 
When  Russia  rings  out  the  dread  Tocsin  of  War ! 


ESSAYS 

'"THESE  essays  are  included  because  of  their  kin- 
ship to  the  poems,  and  especially  by  reason  of 
the  close  friendship  which  existed  between  the  author 
and  the  men  of  whom  the  essays  treat. 

The  essay  relating  to  Father  Tabb  received  wide 
publication  on  account  of  the  many  interesting  facts 
relating  to  his  life  which  have  not  appeared  in  any 
biographical  sketch  hitherto  published. 

The  author  of  "  Maryland,  My  Maryland,"  was 
also  a  very  dear  friend  of  Rev.  D.  O.  Crowley  for 
many  years,  and  because  of  his  intimate  knowledge 
of  Mr.  Randall's  literary  ambitions  he  was  qualified 
to  write  appreciatively  of  his  character  and  genius. 


55 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  57 


THE    POET-PRIEST 


PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  REV.  JOHN  B.  TABB 


HPHE  popular  and  dearly  beloved  poet-priest,  who 
died  in  St.  Charles'  College,  Howard  County, 
Maryland,  on  the  i9th  of  November,  1909,  had  an 
eventful  career.  In  the  second  year  of  the  struggle 
which  ended  at  Appomattox  Courthouse,  John  Ban- 
ister Tabb,  at  the  age  of  eighteen  years,  graduated 
from  the  university  of  his  native  State.  The  Tabb 
family  was  one  of  long  and  high  standing  in  Virginia. 
John  B.  Tabb's  father  was  the  owner  of  a  large 
plantation  and  of  many  slaves.  The  children  of 
that  household  were  loyal  Southerners,  every  one, 
and  on  the  day  of  his  graduation  John  tendered  his 
services  to  the  Confederacy. 

Being  young  and  too  delicate  for  active  service 
in  the  field,  he  was  assigned  to  duty  in  the  Com- 
missary Department.  Later  he  was  appointed  secre- 
tary to  Colonel  Stone,  who  was  sent  by  Jefferson 
Davis  on  a  mission  to  England.  The  steamer  which 


5 8  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

carried  Colonel  Stone  and  his  gifted  secretary  out 
of  New  Orleans  also  gave  passage  to  the  Rev.  Father 
Bannon  who,  having  served  as  chaplain  in  the  South- 
ern Army,  was  commissioned  to  visit  Pius  IX,  then 
head  of  the  States  of  the  Church,  with  a  view  of 
obtaining  the  Holy  Father's  recognition  of  the  Con- 
federacy. Father  Bannon  was  a  splendid  specimen 
of  young  manhood,  tall,  handsome  and  straight  as 
an  arrow.  A  man  of  high  intellectual  attainments, 
it  was  pleasant  to  meet  and  instructive  to  converse 
with  him. 

Having  run  the  blockade  out  of  New  Orleans,  the 
steamer  was  far  on  the  high  seas  when  young  Tabb, 
walking  on  the  bridge  with  the  captain  one  day, 
asked  about  the  distinguished  looking  man  who 
paced  the  deck  beneath  them.  "  That's  a  Catholic 
priest,"  replied  the  captain,  "  and  he's  going  to  Rome 
on  a  mission  similar  to  yours." 

Mr.  Tabb  had  read  of  priests  in  nursery  books, 
but  he  had  never  to  his  knowledge  set  eyes  on  a  real 
priest  before  that  day.  There  were  no  Catholics 
that  he  knew  in  Amelia  County,  where  he  was  raised, 
and  he  had  never  seen  a  Catholic  priest  during  his 
course  at  the  University  of  Virginia.  His  mother, 
an  Episcopalian,  one  of  the  best  of  women,  had 
read  and  believed  strange  and  awful  things  about 
"Romish  priests,"  which  were  related  to  the  young 


SONGS,   SONNETS   AND  ESSAYS  59 

Tabbs  as  nursery  tales.  Father  Bannon  was,  there- 
fore, a  subject  of  curiosity  to  our  future  poet-priest. 
Descending  to  the  promenade  deck,  young  Tabb 
eyed  the  clergyman  engaged  in  reading  the  divine 
office,  "not,"  as  he  often  afterwards  said,  " without 
feelings  of  awe." 

With  a  simplicity  characteristic  of  genius,  Mr. 
Tabb  accosted  the  clergyman  with  the  question : 
"  Are  you  a  Catholic  priest  ? "  Father  Bannon 
replied  in  the  affirmative.  "  Was  your  father  a 
priest  ?  "  "  No,  my  boy,"  answered  Father  Bannon 
with  a  smile. 

Encouraged  by  the  winning  smiles  of  the  amiable 
padre,  Mr.  Tabb  launched  another  question,  saying, 
"  Will  your  son  be  a  priest  ? "  Father  Bannon,  see- 
ing the  young  man  was  speaking  in  good  faith, 
kindly  replied,  "  I  think  not !  " 

Having  satisfied  himself  that  Rev.  Father  Ban- 
nons'  breviary  contained  no  imprecations  against 
the  Protestants,  the  young  Southerner  was  disposed 
to  think  kindly  of  the  priest. 

Before  they  landed  at  Glasgow,  Tabb  was  an 
ardent  admirer  of  the  virtues  and  the  learning  of  his 
fellow  passenger. 

John  Banister  Tabb  was  at  that  early  day  one  of 
the  best  Latin  and  Greek  scholars  of  the  South.  In 
classical  learning  he  excelled,  and  could  appreciate 


60  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

the    erudition    and    attainments    of    his  new  found 
friend. 

During  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  of  fourteen 
days,  Father  Bannon  had  the  time  and  ability  to  dis- 
abuse Mr.  Tabb's  mind  of  the  false  impressions 
which  it  had  received  about  Catholics  and  Catho- 
licity. It  is  reasonable  to  believe  that  the  foundation 
of  his  conversion  was  then  laid  by  the  good  and 
zealous  priest  who  had  been  doing  missionary  work 
south  of  the  Mason  and  Dixon  line  in  ante-bellum 
days. 

About  the  middle  of  November,  1863,  Tabb  came 
back  to  his  native  coasts  on  the  steamer  Robert  E. 
Lee,  which  was  pursued  and  captured  by  the  United 
States  ship  Keystone  State.  Among  other  prisoners 
our  poet  was  sent  to  a  northern  dungeon  at  Old 
Lookout,  Maryland.  Here  he  formed  the  acquaint- 
ance of  that  brilliant  young  poet,  Sidney  Lanier, 
who  died  all  too  soon  for  his  country  and  the  litera- 
ture of  the  "  Lost  Cause."  The  prison  acquaint- 
ance ripened  into  friendship  which  never  knew 
a  waning.  He  dedicated  a  volume  of  poems  to  the 
memory  of  Lanier,  and  tenderly  cherished  that 
memory  to  his  very  last  day.  The  spiritual  relations 
with  this  friend  of  youth  seem  never  to  have  been 
severed,  according  to  the  following  beautiful  lines : 


SONGS,  SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  61 

SIDNEY    LANIER. 

Ere  time's  horizon-line  was  set, 
Somewhere  in  space  our  spirits  met, 
Then  o'er  the  starry  parapet 
Came  wandering  here. 

And  now  that  thou  art  gone  again 
Beyond  the  verge,  I  haste  amain 
Lost  echo  of  a  loftier  strain 
To  greet  thee  there. 

Released  from  prison,  he  taught  music  for  awhile 
in  St.  Paul's  Episcopal  School,  at  Baltimore.  Later 
he  occupied  the  Chair  of  Rhetoric  in  Racine  Col- 
lege, Michigan.  For  a  time  he  held  a  position  on 
the  staff  of  Harper's  Weekly. 

After  much  wandering,  his  weary  spirit  found  a 
resting  place  and  a  home  in  the  bosom  of  Mother 
Church,  and  he  settled  down  to  his  life's  work  in 
that  ecclesiastical  college,  founded  by  and  called 
after  Charles  Carroll,  of  Carrollton.  There  in  the 
shadow  of  the  woods  that  surrounded  the  manor 
house  of  the  Carrolls,  he  spent  the  happiest  days  of 
his  life  and  framed  his  sweetest  songs. 

In  1 88 1  he  entered  St.  Mary's  Seminary,  Balti- 
more, to  study  for  the  priesthood.  He  had  already 
achieved  fame  as  a  poet,  a  wit,  and  a  writer  of  the 
best  English  prose.  We  looked  upon  him  with  awe, 
and  thought  it  a  privilege  to  "  touch  the  hem  of  his 
garment." 


62  SONGS,    SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

We  soon  discovered,  however,  that  this  scion  of 
the  Southern  aristocracy  was  as  humble  and  demo- 
cratic as  ourselves,  the  very  soul  of  wit  and  soci- 
ability. 

His  room  in  the  Seminary  was  across  the  corridor 
from  mine,  and  I,  therefore,  saw  much  of  him.  Both 
of  us  having  had  considerable  experience  in  the 
outer  world,  we  easily  became  friends. 

Much  of  our  evening  recreation  was  spent  to- 
gether in  the  beautiful  little  park  that  skirted  the 
Seminary  on  Paca  Street,  and  I  still  remember  the 
peals  of  hearty  laughter  evoked  by  his  brilliant 
flashes  of  wit  and  mirth-provoking  humorous  re- 
marks. As  a  punster  he  had  no  peer  ;  but  the 
arrows  that  flew  in  all  directions  left  neither  sting 
nor  wound  behind.  He  was  always  kindly  con- 
siderate of  others'  feelings,  and,  unlike  most  wits, 
cordially  enjoyed  a  joke  on  himself. 

It  was  his  wont,  when  the  poetic  inspiration 
moved  him,  to  retire  from  his  company  or  work, 
go  to  his  room  and  remain  there  until  the  finished 
poem  appeared  on  paper.  He  often  came  to  my 
door  after  an  absence  of  two  or  more  days,  with  the 
product  of  his  genius  fresh  from  the  busy  workshop 
of  his  brain.  Once  committed  to  writing,  he  seldom 
used  the  ''labor  of  the  file"  upon  his  verses.  They 
were  sent  post  haste  to  some  one  of  the  big  maga- 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  63 

zines,  and  a  good  cheque  came  back  within  a  week 
or  two  as  an  acknowledgment. 

One  beautiful  evening  in  May  he  came  to  my 
room  with  the  manuscript  of  the  following  sonnet  on 

SHELLEY    IN    NATURE. 

Shelley,  the  ceaseless  music  of  thy  soul 

Breathes  in  the  cloud  and  in  the  skylark's  song, 
That  float  as  an  embodied  dream  along 
The  dewy  lids  of  morning.     In  the  dole 
That  haunts  the  west  wind,  in  the  joyous  roll 
Of  Arethusan  fountains,  or  among 
The  wastes  where  Ozymandias,  the  strong, 
Lies  in  colossal  ruin,  thy  control 
Speaks  in  the  wedded  rhyme.      Thy  spirit  gave 
A  fragrance  to  all  nature,  and  a  tone 

To  inexpressive  silence.     Each  apart  — 
Earth,  air  and  ocean  —  claims  thee  as  its  own. 
The  twain  that  bred  thee,  and  the  panting  wave 
That  clasped  thee,  like  an  overflowing  heart. 

The  magazines  of  that  day  compared  this  with 
Wordsworth's  great  sonnet,  which  contains  the  oft- 
quoted  verse  on  the  Immaculate  Conception  —  "  Our 
Tainted  Nature's  Solitary  Boast." 

Mr.  Tabb  could  wax  warm  and  eloquent  at  all 
limes  over  the  poetry  of  Shelley. 

When  the  poet-priest  of  the  South,  Rev.  Abram 
Ryan,  was  getting  out  an  edition  of  his  poems  in 
Baltimore,  about  1882,  the  students  of  the  Seminary 
saw  him  frequently,  and  were  very  much  interested 


64  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

in  him  and  his  literary  work.  He  was  not  entirely 
free  from  the  eccentricities  of  genius,  and  rumor 
had  it  that  he  did  not  stand  well  with  his  bishop. 
While  this  was  noised  abroad  we  had  reached  that 
chapter  in  Church  history  which  treats  of  the  Arian 
heresy.  One  evening  coming  out  of  class  Mr.  Tabb 
gravely  put  his  hand  on  a  student's  shoulder,  and 
said  with  a  sad  face,  "  I  have  bad  news  for  you." 
The  student  listened  to  hear  him  say,  "The  poet- 
priest  of  the  South  is  declared  a  heretic."  We  anxi- 
ously inquired  the  grounds  for  such  a  proceeding. 
He  cooly  answered,  "  Because  he  is  an  A-ryan  — 
an  Arian." 

On  another  occasion,  finding  some  difficulty  in 
studying  dogmatic  theology,  he  expressed  a  wish, 
in  case  he  should  die  at  the  Seminary,  to  have  the 
inscription  on  his  headstone  read : 

"HERE  LIES  JOHN  B.  TABB,  D.  D." 

"  What  is  the  D.  D.  for  ?  "  exclaimed  the  students. 
"  Died  of  dogma,"  he  answered,  without  a  smile. 
He  compiled  a  skeleton  grammar  for  his  English 
classes,  in  St.  Charles'  College,  which  he  entitled, 
"  Bone  Rule." 

When  the  little  volume  was  published  he  sent  me 
a  copy,  on  the  fly-sheet  of  which  was  written,  by  his 
own  hand  : 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


THE   AUTHOR'S    EPITAPH. 

"  Here  lies  the  old  fool 
Who  taught  us  at  school 
To  use  the  'Bone  Rule;'  — 
Oh,  Lord,  keep  him  cool" 

With  all  this  seeming  levity,  fun  and  frolic,  Mr. 
Tabb  was  a  serious,  sensible  and  religious  gentle- 
man. There  was  no  malice  in  his  composition. 


REV.  JOHN  B.  TABB,  D.  D. 


66  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

He  took  very  sane  and  conservative  views  of  matters 
in  general.  He  was  an  extremist  only  in  two  things 
—  his  devotion  to  the  "  Lost  Cause,"  and  love  for 
the  memory  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

He  made  periodical  visits  to  the  grave  of  Poe, 
and,  on  free  days,  I  occasionally  accompanied  him  to 
the  old  Westminster  Churchyard,  in  Baltimore,  where 
the  author  of  "  The  Raven  "  is  buried.  Poe,  Keats 
and  Lanier,  among  the  poets,  were  his  favorites; 
made  all  the  dearer  to  him  by  their  sorrows  and 
sufferings  while  in  the  "  Vale  of  Tears." 

In  December,  1884,  John  B.  Tabb  was  ordained 
a  priest  in  the  Cathedral  at  Baltimore.  He  was 
affiliated  to  the  diocese  of  Richmond,  but  with  the 
permission  of  his  bishop,  he  went  back  to  St. 
Charles'  College,  in  order  to  devote  most  of  his  time 
to  teaching  and  literature. 

There  Father  Tabb  worked  faithfully  and  well 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  enriched  by  his 
untiring  genius  the  poetic  literature  of  the  English 
language. 

In  every  sentence  written  by  Father  Tabb  there 
is  a  thought,  and  every  thought  is  poetic.  The 
power  of  condensation  belongs  to  him  above  most 
men  who  have  written  in  our  language.  Here  is  a 
sample  from  the  beautiful  verses  entitled  : 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  67 


EVOLUTION. 

"  Out  of  the  dusk  a  shadow, 

Then  a  spark; 
Out  of  the  cloud  a  silence, 

Then  a  lark! 
Out  of  the  heart  a  rapture, 

Then  a  pain  ; 
Out  of  the  dead,  cold  ashes, 

Life  again." 

His  poetry  on  the  whole  is  not  for  the  hurrying 
crowd.  It  appeals  more  to  the  thoughtful,  the  criti- 
cal and  the  learned.  Yet  some  of  his  verses  have  a 
charming  simplicity.  Such  are  the  sweet,  euphoni- 
ous couplets  of 

THE    EROOK. 

"  It  is  the  mountain  to  the  sea 
That  makes  a  messenger  of  me  : 
And,  lest  I  loiter  on  the  way 
And  lose  what  I  am  sent  to  say, 
He  sets  his  reverie  to  song 
And  bids  me  sing  it  all  day  long. 
Farewell!   for  here  the  stream  is  slow, 
And  I  have  many  a  mile  to  go." 

How  vividly  the  autumn  of  life  is  pictured  in  the 
following  verses  : 


"  Behold  the  fleeting 

Forsakes  the  frosty  air; 
And  leaves,  alert  to  follow, 

Are  falling  everywhere 
Like  wounded  birds,  too  weak, 
A  distant  clime  to  seek. 


68  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

And  soon  with  silent  pinions 

The  fledglings  of  the  North 
From  Winter's  wild  dominions 

Shall  drift,  affrighted,  forth, 
And,  phantom-like,  anon, 

Pursue  the  phantoms  gone." 

That  those  who  place  all  their  trust  in  this  life 
are  phantoms  pursuing  phantoms,  Father  Tabb  dis- 
covered in  his  early  youth,  and  turned  away  from 
the  transitory  glories  of  fame  and  fortune  to  find 
Faith,  Hope  and  Consolation  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Catholic  Church.  He  never  looked  back.  He 
shunned  renown,  but  fame  persistently  followed  him. 
While  yet  in  the  full  possession  of  health  and  vigor, 
he  was  acclaimed  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  a 
great  poet  and  a  brilliant  wit. 

An  Anthology  of  his  poems  was  edited  by  Alice 
Meynell,  and  published  in  London  several  years  ago. 
The  English  critics  of  that  time  placed  him  in  the 
front  rank  of  living  poets,  and  his  works  are  in  high 
demand  wherever  English  is  spoken. 

What  Fontaine  wrote  of  Chateaubriand  cannot 
be  applied  to  him  : 

"  His  fate  had  been,  with  anxious  mind 
To  chase  the  phantom   Fame  —  to  find 
His  grasp  eluded ;    calm,   resigned, 
He  knows  his  fate  —  he  dies. 

Then  comes  Renown,  then  Fame  appears, 
Glory  proclaims  the  coffin  hers ; 
Aye,  greenest  over  sepulchres 
Palm-tree  and  laurel  rise." 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  69 

This  was  not  the  fate  of  Father  Tabb.  What 
most  literary  men  strive  for  came  to  him  unsought. 

Father  Tabb's  felicity  in  writing  quatrains  is  well 
illustrated  in  his  lines  on  the  death  of 

FATHER    DAMIEN. 

O  God,  the  cleanest  offering 

Of  tainted  earth  below, 
Unblushing  to  Thy  feet  we  bring  — 

"  A  leper  white  as  snow !  " 

The  disappointments,  the  failures  and  sorrows  of 
Father's  Tabb's  youth  had  their  compensation  in 
the  peace,  contentment  and  happiness  of  after  years. 
He  celebrated  his  daily  Mass,  mingled  with  pupils 
and  dreamed  his  dreams  in  the  seclusion  of  his 
study.  For  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  he 
lived  in  the  congenial  company  of  Nature  and  his 
books ;  he  published  several  volumes  of  poems 
which  sold  well ;  he  was  highly  esteemed  by  thou- 
sands who  never  saw  him,  and  loved  by  all  who  felt 
the  influence  of  his  affectionate  nature.  Surrounded 
by  those  who  were  dearest  to  him  on  earth,  he  died 
full  of  faith  and  good  works,  and  hundreds  who 
passed  under  his  tutorship  to  the  priesthood  will 
offer  prayers  and  sacrifices  for  his  eternal  rest. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


JAMES    RYDER   RANDALL 


POET    LAUREATE    OF    THE    CONFEDERACY,    PATRIOT 
AND    JOURNALIST 


J\ /I  R.  Matthew  Page  Andrews,  of  Baltimore,  is 
getting  out  a  complete  edition  of  Randall's 
poems.  The  advance  sheets  of  the  work  are  before 
me.  The  book  is  being  gotten  out  under  the 
auspices  of  the  James  Ryder  Randall  Memorial 
Association,  organized  to  "  honor  the  name  and 
cherish  the  fame  of  the  Maryland  poet." 

The  association  is  doing  a  creditable  work,  and 
all  lovers  of  good  literature  should  show  their 
appreciation  in  a  practical  way.  A  portrait  of  the 
gifted  Southern  poet,  painted  at  the  expense  of  his 
native  State,  by  Miss  Catherine  Walton,  has  recently 
been  unveiled  in  the  State  House  at  Annapolis. 
Augusta,  Georgia,  is  preparing  to  erect  a  monument 
to  Mr.  Randall  in  that  city,  where  he  spent  so  many 
years  as  a  hard-working  newspaper  editor  and 
correspondent. 

Seven  different  communities  claimed  the  distinc- 
tion and  honor  of  having  Homer  born  among  them. 


72  SOArGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

That,  however,  was  after  Homer's  death  ;  for  in  his 
declining  years  the  blind  old  Bard  of  the  Iliad  was 
obliged  to  beg  his  bread  from  door  to  door. 

Homer  was  not  the  only  poet  who  could  not 
commercialize  his  genius  and  accumulate  wealth. 

Born  in  the  South  and  educated  there  before  the 
advent  of  the  "  Carpet-Bagger,"  James  Ryder  Ran- 
dall was  not  trained  to  turn  his  talents  into  coin, 
and,  therefore,  he  remained  poor  during  his  long, 
laborious  life.  Had  he  been  born  and  educated  in 
Massachusetts  instead  of  in  Maryland,  had  he 
kenned  the  New  England  knack  of  judiciously 
tipping  the  press  agents,  he  might  have  widened 
the  circle  of  his  fame,  hobnobbed  with  the  swells  of 
clubdom  while  living,  and  left  behind  him  worldly 
possessions  to  equal  those  of  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  and  John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 
In  his  day  the  dollar  was  not  deified  south  of  the 
Mason  and  Dixon  line.  He  was  out  of  joint  with 
contemporary  writers  of  the  Northern  States,  and 
having  manifested  no  exalted  opinion  of  his  own 
talents,  the  world  rated  him  according  to  his  own 
standard  until  he  had  ceased  to  sing. 

Neglected  like  Goldsmith,  Mangan  and  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  while  living,  the  Southern  States  are  now 
vieing  with  one  another  to  honor  and  perpetuate 
his  memory. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  73 

Born  in  Baltimore,  on  the  first  day  of  January, 
1839,  Randall  was  descended  from  Acadian  French 
and  Irish  ancestry.  His  first  teacher  was  Mr.  J.  H. 
Clarke,  who  in  his  youth  had  been  the  preceptor  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  After  leaving  the  Clarke  school 
he  entered  Georgetown  College,  where  the  Jesuits, 
those  masters  of  belles  lettres,  soon  discovered  and 
developed  his  love  and  talent  for  literature. 

Georgetown  soon  recognized  him  as  the  college 
poet.  Like  most  young  classical  students,  the 
heroes  of  Greek  and  Roman  history  were  the 
subjects  of  his  early  muse.  "  Leonidas  at  Ther- 
mopylae" and  the  "  Mother  of  the  Gracchi"  were 
his  first  poetic  compositions  to  attract  public  notice 
and  determine  the  bent  of  his  great  talents. 

His  constant  companions  at  College  were  Byron, 
Mangan,  Keats  and  Poe.  Temperamentally  he 
resembled  Poe.  Fortunately  Randall  had  none  of 
those  vices  which  blasted  the  career  of  that  brilliant 
but  erratic  child  of  song.  James  Clarence  Mangan, 
one  of  the  most  truly  gifted  and  genuine  poets  of 
the  prolific  age  in  which  he  lived,  was  a  prime 
favorite  of  Randall's  during  all  the  days  of  a  long 
lifetime. 

In  1905  Mr.  Randall  made  a  visit  to  the  Pacific 
Coast  and  became  my  guest.  We  spent  a  part  of 
the  time  at  Rutherford,  Napa  County,  where  we 


74  SOA'GS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

talked  a  good  deal  about  poetry  in  general,  and  the 
war  songs  of  the  South  in  particular.  While  en- 
gaged in  one  of  those  pleasant  conversations,  I 
remarked  that  the  patriotic  ardor,  religious  fervor 
and  the  glow  of  poetic  feeling  which  characterized 
his  poetry  reminded  me  of  Clarence  Mangan. 

"  Mangan,"  he  replied,  "  influenced  my  youth 
very  much  indeed,  and  his  book  of  poems,  given  to 
me  in  the  beginning  of  my  career  by  Mr.  D.  C. 
Jenkins,  the  editor  of  the  New  Orleans  Delta,  has 
been  the  vade  mecum  of  my  maturer  years.  *  The 
Karamanian  Exile ?  of  that  great,  though  neglected 
Irish  poet,  solved  the  metre  of  '  Maryland,  My 
Maryland.'  " 

"While  teaching,"  he  continued,  "in  Poydras 
College,  near  Pointe-Coupee,  Louisiana,  I  read  and 
absorbed  a  good  deal  of  Mangan's  poetry.  To- 
wards the  end  of  April,  1861,  I  went  to  the  neigh- 
boring town  to  get  the  latest  news  from  the  North. 
The  Civil  War  was  brewing  and  I  was  anxious  for 
news.  Purchasing  a  paper,  the  first  thing  that 
appeared  to  me  was  an  account  of  a  bloody  en- 
counter between  the  citizens  of  Baltimore  and  the 
Sixth  Massachusetts  Regiment,  on  its  way  to  intimi- 
date the  people  of  the  South.  The  clash  occurred 
on  the  1 9th  day  of  April,  and  the  first  man  to  fall 
in  defence  of  what  he  believed  to  be  the  right  was 


SONGS,  SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  75 

a  brave  young  fellow  who  had  been  an  intimate 
friend  of  mine  in  Georgetown  College.  About  dusk 
I  returned  to  my  room  in  a  very  agitated  state  of 
feeling.  Love  of  my  native  State  began  to  assert 
itself.  I  felt  that  an  indignity  had  been  cast  upon 
her.  I  wished  I  had  been  able  to  stand  beside 
my  college  mate,  with  him  to  defend  the  honor  of 
Maryland. 

"  That  night  I  tried  in  vain  to  sleep.  In  troubled 
dreams  my  schoolmate  seemed  to  beckon  me  to 
his  aid  where  the  melee  grew  fierce  and  sanguine. 
Sorrowful  and  excited  I  got  out  of  bed  and  lit  my 
candle.  The  euphonious  measures  of  the  '  Kara- 
manian  Exile '  came  welling  up  in  my  memory,  and 
'  Maryland,  My  Maryland,'  wrote  itself  that  night." 

Next  morning  the  professor  of  literature  read  the 
finished  copy  of  the  poem  to  his  class.  The 
students  were  fired  by  the  spirit  and  patriotic  fervor 
of  the  verses,  and  urged  him  to  have  it  published 
forthwith.  Complying  with  the  wishes  of  the  pupils 
and  faculty  of  Poydras  College,  the  author  sent  his 
manuscript  to  The  Delta  of  New  Orleans.  It  was 
published  in  that  paper  on  April  26th,  and  within  a 
week  in  every  paper  of  all  the  Southern  States.  Mr. 
Randall,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  years,  achieved 
fame  and,  by  virtue  of  a  single  war  song,  became 
the  favorite  poet  of  the  South. 


76  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


MARYLAND,    MY    MARYLAND! 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  necked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland  ! 
My  mother  State!    to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  swTord  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust  — 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Come!  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland  ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  77 


Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland  1 
Come!  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrongj 

Maryland  ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 
And  gives  a  new  key  to  thy  song, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 


Dear  Mother  !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland  ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain — 
'''•Sic  semper!'1''  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  again, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  1 


I  see  the  blush   upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo!  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek- 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland  ! 


Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland  ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  I 


7 8  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder-hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife  and  drum. 

Maryland  ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb — 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes!  she  burns!  she'll  come!  she'll  come! 

Maryland !     My  Maryland  ! 

It  had  not  gone  the  rounds  of  the  press  more 
than  ten  days  when  Miss  Jennie  Gary,  a  famous 
belle  of  Baltimore,  and  a  talented  musician,  set  it 
to  music.  The  evening  on  which  the  music  sheets 
came  from  the  publisher,  there  was  a  meeting  of 
a  local  glee  club  to  which  Miss  Gary  belonged. 
Sitting  at  the  piano,  she  sang  out  with  fine  voice  — 

'•  The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland  ! " 

The  house  went  wild  with  enthusiasm,  and 
everybody  joined  in  the  refrain ;  immense  crowds 
gathered  in  the  vicinity  of  the  club  rooms,  and  the 
new  secession  song  has  ever  since  that  night  held 
its  popularity  in  the  chief  city  of  Maryland. 

On  the  evening  of  the  4th  of  July  following  the 
first  appearance  of  the  poem,  Miss  Gary,  her 
brother  and  several  friends,  as  the  guests  of  General 
Beauregard,  near  Fairfax  Gourt  House,  Virginia, 
were  serenaded  by  the  renowned  Washington 


SONGS,   SOAWETS  AND   ESSAYS 


79 


Artillery  of  New  Orleans,  in  recognition  of  their 
services  to  the  South.  Captain  Sterrett,  expressing 
their  thanks  for  the  compliment,  asked  if  there  was 
anything  the  ladies  could  do  in  return.  The 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL. 


soldiers  cried  out,  "  Let  us  hear  a  woman's  voice." 
Miss  Jennie  Gary,  standing  at  the  door  of  a  tent, 
under  cover  of  the  darkness,  sang  "  Maryland,  My 
Maryland !  "  The  refrain  was  caught  up  by  the 
Rebel  lines  and  flung  back  from  ten  thousand  Rebel 


8o  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

throats.  As  the  last  strains  died  away  in  the  sultry 
night  air,  the  soldiers  gave  three  cheers  and  a  tiger 
for  Maryland. 

Thus  was  "  Maryland,  My  Maryland  ! "  inaugu- 
rated as  the  battle  song  of  the  Confederacy,  on  the 
bloody  field,  a  few  days  after  the  memorable  battle 
of  Manassas.  Never  has  song  been  written  in  such 
soft  euphonious  measures  that  could  arouse  so 
much  fierce  enthusiasm  in  the  breasts  of  fighting 
men ;  and  I  know  of  no  instance  in  the  history  of 
war  where  a  battle  song  has  been  thus  introduced 
and  adopted  on  the  field  of  action. 

"  Maryland,  My  Maryland  !  "  stands  alone  in  this 
respect  and  in  its  undying  popularity. 

This  brief  and  incomplete  sketch  of  the  gentlest 
and  kindliest  of  men  would  be  wanting,  indeed, 
without  some  reference  to  his  prose  writings. 

The  greater  part  of  his  life  had  been  given  to 
filling  the  maw  of  some  newspaper.  He  edited 
The  Morning  Star  in  New  Orleans  ;  for  a  long 
time  acted  in  a  similar  capacity  for  The  Chronicle 
in  Augusta,  Georgia,  and  wrote  regularly  for  several 
Catholic  weeklies.  While  acting  as  private  secre- 
tary to  more  than  one  United  States  Senator,  he 
also  filled  the  role  of  Washington  correspondent  for 
the  Augusta  Chronicle.  Writing  to  this  journal,  in 
the  early  eighties,  of  the  battle  royal,  in  the  Senate, 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  81 

between  Conkling  of  New  York  and  Lamar  of  Mis- 
sissippi, he  wound  up  a  very  brilliant,  epigramatic 
and  able  article  with  these  words : 

"  I  need  not  repeat  the  scene  :  the  charge  of  bad 
faith  ;  its  indignant  repulse ;  the  lying  brand  ;  the 
bucket-shop  retort  through  all  the  gamut  of  the 
subjective  mood — these  things  I  need  not  reproduce. 
But  it  must  be  recorded  that  when  Lamar,  with 
absolute  calm  and  awful  deliberation,  said :  '  I 
have  only  to  state  to  the  Senator  from  New  York 
that  he  understood  me  correctly.  I  said  precisely 
the  words  that  he  understood  me  to  say.  My 
language  was  harsh  and  unparliamentary,  and  I 
beg  the  pardon  of  the  Senate  for  it ;  but  my  lan- 
guage was  such  as  no  good  man  would  deserve  and 
no  brave  man  would  bear.'  Mr.  Conkling  lay  like 
a  Goliath  in  the  dust,  with  a  great  gash  upon  his 
brazen  front,  while  over  him  the  Mississippian 
stood  in  very  majesty." 

This  is  a  specimen  of  his  prose,  taken  at  random  ; 
it  combines  the  descriptive  elegance  of  Washington 
Irving  with  the  vigorous  brevity  of  Emerson.  When 
Father  Ryan,  "  the  poet-priest  of  the  South," 
died,  Randall,  in  the  Augusta  Chronicle,  paid  a 
beautiful  tribute  to  his  character  and  poetry,  which 


82  SOJVGS,   SONNEJ'S  AND  ESSAYS 

was  copied  not  only  in  nearly  all  the  papers  of  the 
United  States,  but  in  many  foreign  journals  also. 
The  same  issue  of  the  Chronicle  printed  "  Resur- 
gam."  To  these  two  articles  Theodore  C.  Cone, 
of  Washington,  B.C.,  refers  in  the  following  strain  : 

"  Yesterday  a  copy  of  your  paper  fell  into  my 
hands.  It  contained  two  notable  things  which  I 
take  to  be  from  the  same  hand.  One  a  poem, 
*  Resurgam  ; '  the  other  what  may  well  be  called  a 
prose-poem  on  the  death  of  Father  Ryan.  Either 
one  or  the  other  is  sufficient  to  entitle  the  author  to 
lasting  fame.  It  seems  a  great  pity,  indeed,  that 
a  man  who  has  the  remarkable  gifts  which  are 
evidenced  in  these  splendid  productions  should  be 
doomed  to  the  dray-horse  work  of  journalism. 
There  certainly  is  no  higher  gift  than  that  which 
enables  a  man  to  move  the  deepest  cords  within  us 
by  the  exaltation  of  his  thought  and  the  high  har- 
mony in  which  it  is  given  expression.  Such  a  man 
merits  a  large  mead  of  praise  and  public  approval." 

Though  Mr.  Randall  was  always  ready  with  his 
facile  pen  to  contribute  to  the  public  approval  of 
other  writers,  he  never  sought  it  for  himself. 

Through  the  press  of  the  South  he  first  called 
the  attention  of  all  lovers  of  American  literature  to 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  83 

the  neglected  grave  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  While 
visiting  his  aged  mother  in  Baltimore,  he  made  a 
visit  to  the  final  resting  place  of  that  author,  in 
Westminster  churchyard.  He  then  wrote  an  elo- 
quent letter  to  the  Augusta  Chronicle,  appealing  to 
the  public  to  erect  a  monument  to  the  author  of  the 
"  Raven."  The  appeal  was  sent  to  Mr.  George  W. 
Childs  of  Philadelphia.  Through  him  the  funds 
were  raised  and  the  memorial  erected. 

Though  his  attitude  to  his  own  work  was  one  of 
indifference,  Randall  was  appreciated  far  and  near. 
In  his  "Fifty  Years  Among  Authors,  Books  and 
Publishers,"  Derby  relates  an  incident  that  occurred 
in  London,  not  long  after  "Maryland"  had  first 
appeared.  "  My  friend,"  writes  Mr.  Derby,  "  the 
Hon.  J.  R.  Thompson,  on  a  visit  to  England,  was 
invited  to  the  house  of  a  very  distinguished  family 
in  London.  There  he  was  introduced  to  a  brilliant 
young  lady  who,  sitting  at  the  piano,  played  and 
sang  for  him  in  a  charming  voice,  '  Maryland,  My 
Maryland ! ' 

"  When  she  had  finished,  amid  great  applause,  she 
stepped  up  to  him  and  said,  '  When  you  return  to 
America  and  see  the  poet  who  wrote  that  song,  tell 
him  that  you  heard  it  sung  by  a  Russian  girl  who 
lives  at  Archangel,  north  of  Siberia,  and  learned  to 
sing  it  there.' " 


84  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

This  reminds  us  of  what  an  English  officer, 
serving  in  India,  wrote  to  Thomas  Moore  after  the 
publication  of  "  Lalla  Rookh": 

"They  tell  me,  Moore,  your  songs  are  sung  — 

Can  it  be  true,  you   lucky  man  ? 
By  moonlight,  in  the  Persian  tongue, 
Along  the  streets  of  Ispahan." 

Those  who  were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
"armed  controversy"  of  1861  thought  highly  of 
Randall's  literary  talents.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
expressing  his  regret  for  not  being  able  to  attend 
the  unveiling  of  a  bust  of  Sidney  Lanier  at  John 
Hopkins  University,  said  in  his  letter  to  Gilman, 
then  the  president  of  that  great  school,  "  I  was 
anxious  to  go  down  because  Baltimore  had  pro- 
duced the  three  best  things  of  their  kind  in  our 
poetic  literature  :  '  The  Star  Spangled  Banner,' '  The 
Raven  '  and  *  Maryland,  My  Maryland  ! '  " 

Dr.  Holmes,  writing  to  Mr.  Chas.  Strahan  as 
late  as  1886,  said:  "  I  always  regretted  that  I  could 
not  write  for  what  I  believed  to  be  the  right  side 
of  the  Civil  War  a  song  as  genuine,  life-like,  musical 
and  effective  as  '  Maryland,  My  Maryland  ! '  ' 

In  1907  Governor  Edwin  Warfield,  of  Maryland, 
proposed  to  call  home  and  give  official  recognition 
to  the  bard  who  had  immortalized  his  State  in 
song.  The  entire  State  enthusiastically  endorsed 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  85 

the  proposition,  and  a  poet  who  loved  Randall  and 
Maryland,  catching  the  spirit  that  was  then  evoked, 
wrote  the  following  verses  in  honor  of  both : 

Maryland,  My  Maryland,"  I  heard  the  bugles  play, 

And  oh  the  golden  music  turned  my  heart  the  golden  way; 

I  saw  the  old  State  gleaming  in  her  beauty  as  of  yore, 

Beside  her  rippling  rivers,  and  beside  her  dreamy  shore ; 

The  sweet  old  song  woke  echoes  of  her  beauty  in  my  breast  — 

The  song  of  Randall's  Maryland  —  may  the  wreath  upon  him  rest! 

The  song  of  Randall's  Maryland,  how  it  rings  upon  the  air 
When  from  the  sweet  old  valleys  of  the  dear  old  State  we  fare; 
Amid  the  alien  cities,  or  on  hills  and  seas  afar 
It  woos  the  heart's  affection  and  it  wakes  you  where  you  are 
To  the  old  home's  tender  beauty,  and  the  spirit  breathes  a  cheer 
For  the  poet  in  whose  music  rings  the  old  home  love  so  clear. 

Oh  Randall,  God  be  with  you,  for  we  owe  you  much  who  know 

The  glory  of  your  Maryland,  feel  the  rapture  of  its  glow ; 

The  world  should  give  you  comfort  and  the  land  reward  your  worth 

With  all  the  goodly  blessings  of  the  golden  dream  of  earth  — 

For  all  the  world  is  beauty  when  the  bugles  and  the  band 

Ring  out  the  stately  measures  of  the  song  you  gave  the  land. 

I  heard  the  bugles  play  it,  and  I  heard  the  voices  sing 
The  words  of  Randall's  Maryland  and  my  heart  began  to  ring, 
And  my  soul  was  filled  with  longing  for  the  valleys  that  I  knew, 
The  tender  skies  above  them  with  their  balmy  breath  of  blue; 
I  heard  the  rivers  calling,  saw  the  green  fields  by  the  shore, 
And  felt  the  old  emotions  that  I  felt  in  days  of  yore. 

:  Maryland,  My  Maryland,"  I  heard  the  echoes  ring, 
I  saw  the  dear  old  hills  of  home  grow  green  with  breath  of  spring; 
I  saw  the  orchards  ripen  in  October's  golden  sun, 
I  saw  the  shores  of  Edenland  unto  the  blue  bay  run ; 
My  heart  re-echoed,  "  Maryland,"  and  my  soul  responded,  too, 
O  Randall  of  the  golden  song  God's  grace  be  unto  you. 


86  SOArGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


RESURGAM. 

Teach  me,  my  God,  to  bear  my  cross, 

As  thine  was  borne ; 
Teach  me  to  make  of   every  loss 

A  Crown  of    Thorn. 
Give  me  thy  patience  and  thy  strength 

With  every  breath, 
Until  my  lingering  days  at  length 

Shall  welcome  death. 

Dear  Jesus,   I  belisve  that  thou 

Didst  rise  again  ; 
Instil  the  spirit  in  me  now 

That  conquers  pain. 
Give  me  the  grace  to  cast  aside 

All  vain   desire, 
All  the  fierce  throbbing  of  a  pride 

That  flames  like  fire. 

Give  me  the  calm  that  Dante  wrought 

From  sensual  din ; 
The  peace  that  errant   Wolsey  sought 

From  stalwart  sin. 
I  seek  repose  upon  Thy  breast 

With  child  like  prayer ; 
Oh,  let  me  find  the   heavenly  rest 

And  mercy  there  ! 

If    I  have,  in  rebellious  ways, 

Profaned  my  life ; 
If    I  have  filled  my  daring  days 

With  worldly  strife; 
If    I  have  shunned  the  narrow'  path 

In  crime  to  fall  — 
Lead  me  from  the  abode  of  wrrath 

And  pardon  all  1 


SONGS,   SONNEJ'S  AND   ESSAYS  87 

Banished  fiom  Thee,  where  shall  I   find 

For  my  poor  soul 
A  safe  retreat  from  storms  that  blind, 

Or  seas  that  roll? 
Come  to  me,   Christ,   ere  I,  forlorn, 

Sink  '  neath  the  wave, 
And  on  this  blessed  Easter  Morn 

A  Lost  one  save. 

This  poem  was  written  in  Washington,  D.  C., 
while  Mr.  Randall  was  acting  as  private  secretary 
to  Senator  Joseph  E.  Brown.  The  most  prominent 
men  of  that  time  thought  it  one  of  his  best  efforts 
in  poetry.  It  was  copied  in  all  the  papers  of  the 
land,  committed  to  memory  by  thousands  of  ad- 
mirers, and  preserved  in  innumerable  scrap  books. 
Many  critics  compared  it  to  Cardinal  Newman's 
beautiful  hymn  : 

"  Lead  kindly  light,  amid  the  circling  gloom: 
Lead  thou  me  on." 

The  poet  himself,  whose  attitude  towards  his 
own  poetry  was  not  highly  appreciative,  thought 
well  of  this.  He  evidently  did  not  relish  being 
introduced  everywhere  as  the  author  of  "  Maryland, 
My  Maryland  ! "  He  was  not  a  single  song  writer. 
The  fame  of  his  war  song,  however,  became  so 
great  as  to  cast  into  obscurity  all  his  other  brilliant 
works. 


88  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

On  the  occasion  of  his  visit  with  the  Knights  of 
Columbus  to  San  Francisco,  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  introducing  him  to  an  audience  of  very  select 
and  prominent  people  as  "  Mr.  Randall,  the  author 
of  '  Maryland,  My  Maryland  !  '  the  '  Marsellaise ' 
of  the  South."  In  a  brief  preface  to  his  remarks 
he  wondered  why  he  should  always  be  announced 
as  the  writer  of  a  single  song.  Yet  such  was  his 
fate,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  written  many 
things  of  greater  literary  merit  than  "  Maryland, 
My  Maryland  !  "  Among  other  pieces  he  men- 
tioned the  following,  which,  perhaps,  on  account  of 
his  deeply  religious  nature  was  first,  last  and  all  the 
time  a  favorite  with  the  bard  of  the  Confederacy : 

WHY  THE  ROBIN'S  BREAST  IS  RED. 

The  Saviour,  bowed  beneath  his  cross, 

Clomb  up  the  dreary  hill, 
While  from  the  agonizing  wreath 

Ran  many  a  crimson  rill, 
The  brawny  Roman  thrust  him  on 

With  unrelenting  hand  — 
'Till  staggering  slowly  'mid  the  crowd, 

He  fell  upon  the  sand. 

A  little  bird  that  warbled  near 

That   memorable  day 
Flitted  about  and  strove  to  wrench 

One  single  thorn  away ; 
The  cruel  spike  impaled  his  breast, 

And  thus  '  tis  sweetly  said, 
The  Robin  wears  his  silver  vest 

Incarnadined  with  red. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  89 

Ah  Jesu !  Jesu  !  Son  of   Man ! 

My  dolour  and  my  sighs 
Reveal  the  lesson  taught  by  this 

Winged  Ishmael  of  the  skies. 
I,  in  the  palace  of   delight, 

Or  caverns  of  despair. 
Have  plucked  no  thorns  from  Thy  dear  brow, 

But  planted  thousands  there. 

I  believe  it  was  Emerson  that  said,  "  Where  the 
poet  is,  though  his  abode  be  the  wilderness,  there 
the  heart  of  the  race  beats."  The  heart  of  humanity 
throbs  through  these  pathetic  lines ;  goes  out  in 
sympathy  with  — 

1  The  little  bird  that  warbled  near 
That  memorable  day," 

and  the  "heart  of  the  race"  loves  Randall  the 
dreamer,  —  even  in  this  materialistic  age,  because 
he  is  able  to  reveal  a  something  divine  that  is  in 
every  human  being. 

The  poet  of  the  Confederacy  was  a  practical  and 
devout  child  of  the  Church.  His  faith  also  was 
childlike,  sublime  and  beautiful.  The  non-Catholic 
writer  of  his  life  and  works  says:  "Always  religi- 
ously inclined,  he  grew  to  be  one  of  the  most  devout 
members  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  America. 
Whatever  the  storm  or  stress  of  time,  he  neglected 
no  form  of  religious  observance  which  he  deemed 
to  be  a  part  of  his  duty  towards  his  Maker.  In  his 


9°  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

last  letter  to  Miss  Shepherd,  of  Maryland,  he  ex- 
hibits his  patience  and  trust  in  Divine  Providence. 
Having  given  expression  to  his  great  longing  for 
his  native  State,  he  concluded  thus  : 

" '  I  have  so  long  submitted  to  what  I  felt  was 
God's  will  that  whenever  I  am  not  supernaturally 
helped  to  go  where  I  wish,  I  patiently  wait  for  the 
deliverance  and  always  find  it  for  the  best.  Where- 
fore, using  every  human  effort  to  get  back  to 
Baltimore,  what  can  I  do  but  await  the  summons 
from  on  high  and  the  necessary  pecuniary  help ! ' " 

"  The  necessary  pecuniary  help "  has  reference 
to  a  plan  which  the  State  Legislature  had  under 
consideration  of  engaging  Mr.  Randall  to  collect 
and  catalogue  the  historical  documents  in  the  arch- 
ives at  Annapolis. 

This  plan  was  about  to  materialize  when  "  God's 
will "  called  the  poet  to  his  eternal  home.  When 
"  the  summons  from  on  high  "  came,  a  little  over 
two  years  ago,  it  found  him  ready  and  resigned. 

Fortified  with  the  last  ministrations  of  the  Church 
which  he  had  served  so  faithfully  during  a  long, 
eventful  and  distinguished  career,  he  died  as  he  had 
lived  with  the  love  of  our  blessed  Savior  in  his 
heart  and  "  Resurgam"  on  his  lips. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  91 

Like  many  another  lyrist  he  sleeps  far  away  from 
the  place  of  his  birth,  immortalized  by  his  genius ; 
but  Augusta,  Georgia,  where  he  lived  and  labored 
for  forty  years,  will  raise  a  monument  to  commemo- 
rate his  worth,  and  carve  upon  its  polished  surface 
a  stanza  from  his  own  majestic  muse,  expressive  of 
our  common  fate  and  fondest  hope  : 

AFTER  A  LITTLE  WHILE. 

The  Cross  will  glisten  and  willows  wrave 

Above  my  grave, 

And  Planets  smile ; 
Sweet  Lord!  then  pillowed  on  Thy  gentle  breast, 

I  fain  would  rest, 

After  a  little  while. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS 

BY 

REV.    T.    L.    CROWLEY,    O.  P. 

AQUINAS  COLLEGE,  COLUMBUS,  OHIO 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


95 


BEYOND 

T   PICKED  a  tinted  sea-shell  from  the  shore 

One  day,  and  while  I  held  its  orifice 
Unto  my  ear,  I  heard  the  zephyrs  kiss 
The  deep,  —  the  rustling  sails  of  ships  which  bore 
Across  the  crested  main  their  laden  store,— 
The  quick  and  whirring  wings  of  birds  whose  bliss 
Sweet-cadenced  sped  along  above  the  hiss 
Of  angry  surf  that  on  the  sea-rocks  tore. 

A  softer  music  from  the  pearl-gemmed  shell 
Of  faith  enchants  my  heart.     Across  God's  hill 
A  golden  symphony  awakes  of  song 
And  angel  minstrelsy.     Sweet  anthems  swell 
And  voice  and  heart  and  lute  my  soul  so  thrill, 
That  winged  with  love  it  seeks  the  blessed  throng. 


• 


96  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


THE    FLOWERS    OF    PRESENT 
LOVE 

'"FHE  fleeting  moments  of  our  life 

Eternities  contain 
For  constant  ministrations  rife 
With  love  or  needless  pain. 

The  honied  words  of  genial  cheer 

Sepulchered  hearts  revive, 
And  minds  o'ercast  with  laden  fear 

Resurgent  move  and  strive. 

Our  alabaster  box  of  love 

Too  oft  is  sealed  with  care 
Whose  healing  ointment  poured  above 

Sad  hearts  would  soon  repair. 

The  jewel  of  each  friendly  thought 

Uncasketed  should  shine, 
And  show  that  spirits  kindly  fraught 

Partake  of  the  divine. 

The  ever  present  is  the  time 

For  anguish  to  allay, 
And  raise  from  depths,  to  heights  sublime, 

The  souls  who  cannot  pray. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  97 

Post-mortem  kindness  never  brings 

Sweet  smiles  upon  the  dead ; 
Our  madrigal  all  hollow  rings 

When  chosen  ones  are  fled. 

The  flowers  you'd  place  upon  the  biers 

Cull  now  with  eager  hand, 
And  bathed  with  nature's  sunny  tears, 

Unite  with  love's  sweet  band. 

Bring  then  the  hast'ning  joys  of  earth 

To  every  troubled  heart, 
And  by  your  Midan  touch  of  mirth 

New  strength  and  hope  impart. 


98  SOArGS,   SOAWETS  AND  ESSAYS 


AWAKENED    JOY 

T    WATCHED  the  dandelion  unfold 

Its  beauteous  shield  of  shining  gold, 
And  saw  the  tiny  creature's  bliss 
When  on  it  fell  the  sunbeam's  kiss. 

I  heard  the  goldfinch  far  away, 
Singing  his  joyous  roundelay 
To  field  and  stream  and  tree  and  flower, 
Even  beyond  the  vesper  hour. 

I  wondered  then,  why  I  was  cold, 
Why  fetters  strong  my  heart  did  hold ; 
I  could  not,  like  this  flower,  gold-spun, 
Drink  in  the  glory  of  the  sun  ; 

Nor  from  my  soul  with  shadows  drear 
Sing  like  the  finch,  a  song  of  cheer, 
Yet  bird  and  flower  awoke  my  lyre 
And  set  my  chilling  heart  afire. 


SOATGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  99 


MAGDALEN 

J\  l\  UCH  had  the  tearful  Magdalen 
*     *•     Erred  in  her  early  life  ; 
Much  thrilled  her  chastened  soul  again 
With  love  and  virtue  rife. 

She  met  the  Savior's  tender  look, 

She  heard  his  words  of  love ; 
Her  risen  spirit  upward  took 
Its  way  to  heights  above. 

Deep  was  her  sorrow  for  the  past, 

Torrential  were  her  tears ; 
The  Savior's  gentle  love  at  last 

Brought  peace  and  calmed  her  fears. 


ioo  SOJVGS.  SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

To  show  her  love  she  thought  it  meet 

As  tenderest  regard, 
To  lave  with  tears  the  Savior's  feet 

And  sign  with  spikenard. 

Dear  paragon  of  penitence, 

Our  lives  with  snares  are  strewn ; 

Help  us  preserve  our  innocence, 
And  God  shall  be  our  boon. 

Should  taint  of  moral  leprosy 

Envassalage  our  soul ; 
Cease  not  Thy  gentle  clemency 

That  Christ  may  be  our  goal. 


FRIEND    OF   OUR   EXILE 

(^  ENTLE  lyre  of  consolation, 
Solace  in  my  desolation, 

Friend  in  hours  of  exultation, 
My  Rosary. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  IOI 


THE  AZURE  OF  REMEMBRANCE 

T^vEATH  closed  the  scene,  and  took  from  me  a  friend 

I  tenderly  had  loved.     Beside  his  bier 
I  gazed  upon  his  face  where  never  fear 
Had  been,  but  constant  love  unto  the  end. 
And  while  I  thought  deep,  poignant  grief  would  rend 
My  weeping,  aching  heart  for  him  so  dear, 
There  coursed  down  my  cheek  a  love -fraught  tear,  — 
The  only  messenger  my  heart  could  send. 

Upon  the  grave  it  fell,  and,  as  at  sea, 
The  diver  passes  from  our  sight  to  tread 
The  treasured  deep,  straightway  unto  the  spot 
It  sped,  where  lay  his  heart ;  I  bent  my  knee 
A  little  space  from  where  I  wept  and  read 
His  answer  in  a  blue  forget-me-not. 


102 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


RABBONI 

O  AD  were  thy  hours  on  Calvary 

With  Christ  in  His  drear  agony. 
Thy  bitter  tears  with  love  replete 
Embalmed  the  Savior's  wounded  feet. 


Thou  sawst  them  take  Him  from  the  Cross 
How  utter  was  thy  cruel  loss  ! 
Thou  sawst  Him  placed  within  the  tomb, 
Thy  soul  was  freighted  then  with  gloom. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  103 

Disconsolate  you  trod  the  way  , 
Your  sad  heart  sang  its  plaintive  lay; 
The  sunny  smile,  the  kingly  face 
Of  Christ  was  humbled  with  disgrace. 

How  thrilled  thy  soul,  how  changed  thy  fears  ! 
When  sweetest  music  charmed  thy  ears  ; 
The  music  of  the  Savior's  voice 
Which  made  your  wounded  heart  rejoice. 

"  Rabboni  "  was  your  gladsome  word  ; 
"  Rabboni,"  yes,  your  sweet  King  heard. 
Ecstatic  joy  thrilled  through  thy  heart, 
No  more  thy  Savior  would  depart. 

Oh,  Magdalen  !  with  joy  elate, 
Teach  us  thy  love  to  imitate  ; 
At  Easter  may  our  lips  accord 
Rabboni  greeting  to  the  Lord. 


NATURE'S  LESSON 

'"THE  autumn  fields  with  hectic  flush 

Prognosticate  decay  ; 
Consummate  strength  of  man  will  blush 
Before  death's  awful  sway. 


104  SOA'GS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


MY    OFFERING 

'"THE  shepherds  woke  when  on  their  stilly  height 

There  streamed  a  flood  of  soft  and  argent  sheen, 
Straight  to  a  cave  it  led  them,  where  a  paean 
From  angel  voices  broke  the  hush  of  night. 
Within  the  rock  before  their  startled  sight 
An  infant  lay.     Beside  Him  knelt  the  Queen, 
Supremely  fair,  who  with  her  spouse  was  seen 
Bent  o'er  the  child  in  ravishing  delight. 

Thy  love,  O  Christ,  a  purer  light  than  shone 
Upon  the  silver-mirrored  hills,  now  leads 
Me  to  Thy  crib.     Here  held  entranced  above 
Thy  infant  form,  no  gold  nor  precious  stone 
I  bring  to  thee ;  the  earnest  of  kind  deeds 
I  offer  Thee,  O  gentle  Babe,  is  love. 


SOA'GS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  105 


THE   TRIPLE   LEGACY 


/^vUR  sire,  a  triple  legacy 

Bequeathed  to  every  friar, 
To  praise,  to  bless  with  clemency, 
To  preach  with  holy  fire. 

LAUDARE 

Before  the  eucharistic  throne 
With  joy  we  keep  Christ's  court, 

And  with  a  sweetly  rhythmic  tone 
His  tender  words  report. 

The  psalms  and  hymns  in  unison 
Are  carolled  in  the  choir, 

Each  dulcet  note  a  benison 

Comes  from  our  heart's  own  lyre. 


io6  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

BENEDICERE 

From  out  the  lavish  plenitude 

Of  Christ's  abiding  love, 
Annointed  hands  an  amplitude 

Of  grace  brings  from  above. 

The  sick,  the  maimed,  the  shriven  soul, 
Sweet  benedictions  share ; 

And  newer  visions  of  their  goal 
Bespeaks  a  Father's  care. 

PRAEDICARE 

The  words  of  holy  utterance 

Which  Christ  spoke  on  the  mount, 

We  preach  as  our  inheritance 
And  sacredly  recount. 

Our  fire-touched  lips  exultingly 

Preach  Jesus  crucified ; 
And  grace  leads  men  triumphantly 

Where  ransomed  souls  abide. 


O  triple  office,  sacredly 

"To  praise,  to  bless,  to  preach," 
May  sainted  Domnick  blessedly 

His  children  daily  teach. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


107 


THE   CRATER    OF    CALUMNY 

'"THE  burning  crater  of  Vesuvius 

Poured  forth  its  red  and  baleful  curse  of  fire. 
The  molten  stream  with  seething,  hellish  ire, 
Unleashed,  leaped  from  its  lurid  uterus 
And  torrent-like  swept  with  fell  impetus 
Engulfing  verdant  fields  and  trees  and  spire. 
Fair  cities  wept  and  drank  the  lava  dire 
And  slept  enswathed  in  cerements  sulphurous. 

The  flaming  crater  of  ill  speaking  lips 
More  searing  vomit  than  volcanoes  pour. 
The  lying  words  first  question  lilied  names 
And  then  the  leprous-tainted  tongue  soon  trips 
To  acrid  calumny.     True  men  abhor 
The  viper  soul  which  wilfully  defames. 


108  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


THE  TENDER  LOVE  OF  CHRIST 

THE  widow's  son  of  Nairn  was  borne 

Along  the  thoroughfare  ; 
The  weeping  mother's  heart  was  torn 
With  grief  and  grim  despair. 

Her  only  hope  and  strength  and  joy 

Was  stretched  upon  the  bier ; 
The  pallid  form  of  her  dead  boy 

Had  palsied  her  with  fear. 

No  more  the  sunshine  of  his  face 

Would  dissipate  her  fears  ; 
No  more  his  virile  youth  would  grace 

The  sunset  of  her  years. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  109 

While  yet  abysmal  sorrow  filled 

Her  broken  heart  with  pain  ; 
Her  soul  with  sudden  hope  was  thrilled 

When  ceased  the  moving  train. 


Her  saddened  eyes  beheld  the  mien 

Of  Jesus  by  her  side  ; 
His  presence  cheered  the  mournful  scene 

And  hopefulness  revived. 


He  looked  beyond  the  present  span, 
And  saw  till  his  last  breath, 

The  cruel  infamy  of  man 
In  putting  Him  to  death. 

He  saw  His  form  from  off  the  Cross 
By  tender  hands  conveyed  ; 

He  saw  the  agonizing  loss 
His  mother's  eyes  portrayed. 


Moved  at  the  widow's  sorry  plight  — 
"  Weep  not,"  the  Savior  said ; 

And  by  the  influx  of  his  might 
Gave  back  to  her  the  dead. 


no  SONGS,  SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

His  tender  love  for  motherhood 
Brought  forth  His  sacred  power ; 

His  clement  heart  well  understood 
His  mother's  dreadful  hour. 

Infuse,  dear  Christ,  Thy  tenderness,  — 

Thy  filial  regard ; 
May  we  our  mother's  happiness, 

Augment  and  daily  guard. 

*  *  * 

THE    HOLY    NAME 

\  17  HAT  magic  in  a  name  !     At  one  fond  word 

The  warm  blood  courses  through  the  veins.    Ajar 
The  heart-gates  stand  and  memory  a  bar 
Of  sweetest  music  floods  the  soul.     Unheard  — 
The  triumphs  which  its  potent  spell  had  gird 
Full  many  to  achieve  and  those  whose  star 
Of  hope  had  paled  in  toilsome  fields  afar 
Caught  but  the  whispered  sound  and  stood  inured. 

To  Christian  souls  the  hallowed  name  of  Christ 
Is  dulcet  melody.     It  lingers  long 
Upon  the  golden  chords  of  hearts  aflame 
With  love,  and  wins  for  those  whose  stoutly  tryst 
With  hell,  quick  victory.     May  lips  prolong, 
Dear  King,  the  praises  of  Thy  Holy  Name. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


MY    MOTHER'S    EYES 

0  RIGHT  eyes,  tender  eyes,  eyes  of  deepest  blue, 

Eyes  that  leap  and  dance  with  mirth  and  pierce 

me  through  and  through  ; 

Eyes  like  flaming  sunsets,  eyes  like  pearly  dawns, 
Eyes  of  simple  loveliness  outrivalling  the  fawn's. 

1  have  seen  the  sun  towards  twilight  with  crimson 

flush  the  west, 

I  have  seen  the  silvery  splendor  of  the  moon  ; 
I  have  seen  earth's  rarest  beauties  at  the  dawn,  the 

eve  and  noon, 
But  the  beauty  of  my  mother's  eyes  is  best. 

Bright  eyes,  tender  eyes,  eyes  of  deepest  blue, 
Eyes  where-in  my  spirit  rests,  eyes  my  life  renew. 


H2  SOA'GS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


AN   AUTUMNAL    MUSING 

HTHE  autumn  fields  are  limned  with  gold 

And  ruby-stained  are  trees  ; 
The  Sun-God  pours  a  molten  mould 
Upon  the  emerald  seas. 

Melodic  birds  with  limpid  song 

Enthrall  to  ecstacy  ; 
And  hastening  streams  their  course  along 

Sweep  by  with  majesty. 

The  cerule  canopy  above 

With  pinioned  clouds  bedight, 

Mirages  God's  unceasing  love 
For  vale  and  lake  and  height. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  113 

Coronal  season  of  the  year 

How  jocund  is  the  field ; 
Thy  ripening  sandalled  feet  to  hear 

And  rend  its  golden  yield. 

The  fruited  trees  obey  thy  wand, 

Thou  king  of  alchemy  ; 
The  crimson  flood  from  vintage  bond 

Springs  up  in  luxury ! 

With  magic  touch  thy  brush  is  spread 

On  cot,  on  fern,  on  leaf ; 
Thy  gorgeous  tints  of  gold  and  red 

Adorn  the  coral  reef. 

Sweet  harbinger  of  peace  and  rest, 

Thy  glory  stencilled  o'er, 
Brings  benediction  to  the  quest 

Of  nature's  golden  store. 


SOA'GS,   SOAW£TS  AND  ESSAYS 


LIFE'S    CANOPY 

'"THE  rarest  joys  upon  the  busy  marts 

Of  life,  are  friends.    Our  gladdened  souls  may  swoon 
Upon  the  heights  of  fame  or  seek  their  boon 
In  Croesian  wealth,  but  fulsome  praise  departs 
Like  mists  upon  the  sea  and  gold  imparts 
But  sordid  care.     When  trusted  souls  commune 
Sweet  cadenced  happiness  their  lives  attune 
And  golden  is  their  symphony  of  hearts. 

Though  sacred  are  those  ties  that  join  dear  friends 
On  earth,  more  sacred  yet  the  bonds  that  bind 
Our  souls  to  Christ.     Tear-stained  may  be  our  strife 
And  myrrhed  our  hearts,  but  myrrh  and  tears  Christ  blends 
In  rainbow7  tints  above.     Thrice  blest  mankind 
Whose  Savior's  love  encanopies  its  life. 


SOArGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  115 


PREPARE   YOUR    HEARTS 

POOT-SORE  the  holy  couple  trod 
Amid  the  city's  motley  crowd ; 
And  from  each  door  the  keepers  proud 
Refused  a  shelter  to  their  God. 

Along  the  rugged  thoroughfare 

Their  pensive  foot-falls  pressed  the  ground, 

Until  within  a  cave  they  found 

Sweet  respite  from  the  midnight  air. 

Upon  the  rock-ribbed  floor  they  placed 
Scant  straw  ;  and  lo  !  while  yet  forlorn, 
In  prayer,  and  mild-eyed  beasts  adorn 
The  stalls,  around  the  cave  was  traced 


n6  SOA'GS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

Effulgent  light,  and  angel  song 
Announced  the  new-born  King  and  Lord. 
Obeisance  then  in  sweet  accord 
Came  from  the  raptured,  bending  throng. 

Dear  Mary  and  her  gentle  spouse 
Rebuffed,  departed  from  the  Inns ; 
And  Jesus,  by  our  goading  sins, 
Our  sluggish  hearts  fails  to  arouse. 

Without  He  stands  and  pleading,  asks 
A  place  whereon  to  rest  His  head ; 
And,  churlish  ingrates,  we,  instead 
Of  love,  reprove  His  tender  task. 

This  Yule-tide  hear,  oh  Christian  friends, 

And  heed  the  Savior's  urging  call ; 

Adorn  your  hearts,  the  palace  hall 

Where  Christ  should  dwell,  and  make  amends. 


SONGS,   SOATNE7'S  AND  ESSAYS 


A    NOBLER   CONQUEST 

'"TIBERIAS  smote  with  battle-axe  and  sword 

The  wild  untutored  hordes  that  swept  along 
Towards  Rome.     Their  limbs  then  bound  in  shackles 

strong, 

The  soldiers  homeward  walked  before  their  Lord. 
Around  the  garlaned  arch  with  one  accord 
The  war-flushed  chief  is  welcomed  by  the  throng. 
With  shout  and  blast  they  joyfully  prolong 
Their  greeting  for  his  victory  abroad. 

The  Albi  hordes  across  the  sunny  plains 

Of  Languedoc  came  like  a  tidal  wave. 

They  broke  upon  the  rock  of  Dominic, 

Who,  cross  aloft,  bound  fast  with  golden  chains 

Of  love  their  captive  souls.     To  Christ  he  gave 

These  precious  spoils,  rare  trophies  and  majestic. 


i8  SOJVGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


THE    DEATHLESS    GIFT 

\\  7 HAT  grace  the  shifting  scenes  of  life,  like  friends, 

What  solace  from  their  ministry  attend ; 
The  arid  days  to  oases  are  turned, 
And  sullen  skies  with  molten  gold  are  burned. 

The  trophies  of  our  quest  are  stalwart  souls 
Whose  high  resolves  are  guerdoned  by  their  goals  ; 
Exultant  while  the  joys  of  wealth  caress, 
Unflinching  succor  us  when  cares  oppress. 

The  plectrum  of  their  image,  memory's  chords 
Awakes,  and  dulcet  symphony  affords ; 
The  subtle  grace  of  myriad  featured  forms 
Within  our  templed  sanctuaries  swarms. 


SOATGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  119 

Along  the  halcyon  vista  of  our  thought 
The  lilied  sex  are  nimbus-visaged  wrought ; 
The  sylph-like  young  are  limned  with  comely  airs, 
The  matronly  are  hallowed  by  their  cares. 

The  puissant  youth  in  adolescence  state 
Reveals  the  soul  with  hopes  inebriate ; 
The  virile  manhood  of  maturer  years 
With  laureled  wisdom  on  our  ken  appears. 

A  Croesian  wealth  we  seek  not  in  our  strife, 
Content  the  commerce  of  a  lowly  life ; 
We  only  ask  the  melody  of  days 
Enriched  by  music  of  a  spirit's  lays. 

Thy  gifts,  oh  God,  with  lavish  hands  are  strewn, 
But  friendship  is  Thy  choicest  gift  and  boon ; 
Our  fitful  hours  are  beaconed  by  the  light, 
Effulgenced  by  a  kindred  spirit's  sight. 

For  Thee  alone  they  toil  in  ecstacy 
And  win  for  us  Thy  hearts  own  legacy ; 
Transfigured  by  Thy  alchemy  of  love, 
They  keep  our  faint  and  errant  hearts  above. 

Bless  then  the  days  to  friendship's  converse  given, - 
The  nectared  sweetness  is  a  taste  of  Heaven ; 
And  when  our  friends  shall  pass  beyond  the  years, 
We'll  bless  them  through  the  prism  of  our  tears. 


120  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


A  BRIGHTER  FLAME 

TN  Roman  fane,  in  lily-white  attire, 

The  virgins,  vowed  to  Vesta  in  the  skies, 
Sent  up  the  incense  of  a  people's  sighs, 
And  kept  for  them  the  sacrificial  fire. 
So  did  the  Persians  to  their  shrines  retire, 
And  there  before  the  golden  flame  that  flies 
Forever  upward, —  raised  adoring  eyes, 
And  fed  the  blaze  their  rites  forbade  expire. 

But  vestal  fire  and  pagan  Persian  flame 

That  leaped  from  altars  to  the  gods  above 

Seem  faded  to  the  golden  flames  that  dart 

From  out  the  cleft  of  Christ's  own  side,  whence  came 

The  crimson  streams  of  life.     O  King  of  love, 

How  pale  all  fires  before  thy  Sacred  Heart. 


SOA'GS,  SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  121 


EASTER   DAWN 

T^HE  first  faint  light  of  dawn  revealed 

The  Savior's  sepulchre  unsealed  ; 
A  vivid  crash,  the  earthquake's  shock, 
A  fissure  traced  upon  the  rock. 

The  mists  of  grief,  the  pall  of  gloom 
That  hung  around  the  Savior's  tomb  ; 
A  hurried  flight  took  with  the  dawn 
Of  man's  immortal  Easter  morn. 


122  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

Resplendent  in  His  raiment  bright, 
The  Savior  came  arrayed  with  might ; 
Whom  would  this  brightness  not  appall 
When  soldiers  fled  affrighted  all  ? 

He  met  the  women  bathed  with  tears, 
His  gladsome  face  dispelled  their  fears  ; 
To  doubting  ones  he  ne'er  denied 
To  show  His  body  glorified. 

The  Resurrection  has  sufficed 

To  prove  Thy  Deity,  oh  Christ ; 

No  more  the  chains  of  death  shall  bind 

The  ransomed  spirits  of  mankind. 


SOA'GS,   SONA'ETS  AND   ESSAYS 


123 


A   SWEETER   HARP 

\  \  7  HEN  David's  hand  swept  o'er  the  harp  there  sprang 

A  pleasing  harmony.     Each  note,  a  prayer, 
Broke  in  sweet  rapture  on  the  vesper  air 
While  from  the  scrolls  of  memory  he  sang 
His  Maker's  mercies.     Eorgot  were  clang 
Of  war,  forgot  the  spoils  that  in  the  glare 
Of  sunlight  shone.     All  other  joys  were  bare ; 
Each  passing,  fleeting,  futile  thought  a  pang. 

But  I,  upon  a  sweeter  harp,  awake 

A  heav'nlier  flood  of  melody.     The  beads 

I  touch  of  Mary's  dulcet  legacy, 

In  ecstacies  of  golden  sound,  break 

Upon  the  air.     My  soul  the  Savior's  deeds 

Most  sweetly  sings  upon  the  Rosary. 


124  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


THE    ONE    SWEET    DAY 

/^VNE  day  in  each  recurring  year, 

Ere  autumn's  glow  has  fled, 
Our  shrouded  sanctuaries  drear, 
Commemorate  the  dead. 

The  plaintive  requiems  are  sung, 

And  prayerfulness  instil  ; 
The  saddened  hearts  of  old  and  young 

With  recollections  fill. 

Enbosomed  in  the  clement  earth, 

Encouched  upon  the  clay, 
Our  dear  ones  wait  a  newer  birth  — 

They  rest  till  Judgment  day. 

The  genial  sunshine  of  their  thought 

Illumed  the  road  we  trod ; 
Their  saintly  converse  often  brought 

Us  to  the  feet  of  God. 

Along  the  vista  of  our  minds, 
Each  cherished  one  appears ; 

And  memory  devoutly  finds 
New  graces  for  our  tears. 


SONGS,   SOATNETS  AND  ESSAYS  125 

How  sweet,  All-SouPs-Day,  to  repair 

Before  our  hidden  King, 
And  for  the  dead,  by  fervent  prayer, 

A  gentle  solace  bring. 

How  tenderly  in  every  church 

Is  offered  Sacrifice, 
That  dear  ones,  long  since  gone  from  earth, 

May  enter  Paradise. 

We  shall  not  fear  the  shrouded  bier, 

If  faithful  sons  we  be, 
For  Christ's  sweet  Spouse,  each  current  year, 

Shall  bless  our  memory. 


126 


SOArGSt   SO.VATE7"S  AND   ESSAYS 


THE    WISDOM    OF    THE    CROSS 

(A  tribute  to  St.  Thomas  Aquinas) 
'"THE  modern  sage,  in  knowledge's  sacred  quest, 

Pores  o'er  the  stained  and  time-worn  honored  scripts, 
And  lo !  the  potent  wand  of  love  uplifts 
The  umbrous  clouds  on  wisdom's  snow-capped  crest. 
Enthralled,  and  by  her  pearly  rays  caressed, 
His  panting  heart  and  slakeless  spirit  drifts 
In  prescient  luxury ;  and  shattered  crypts 
Of  human  mysteries  bring  dulcet  rest. 

Thy  ken,  O  Thomas,  reached  the  dazzling  heights 

Of  human  lore  in  infant  years,  and  wings 

Gold-tipped  with  love,  sought  higher  spheres.     The  dross 

Of  transient  things  soon  paled,  and  airy  flights 

Brought  chastened  scenes.     Unslaked  at  earthly  springs, 

You  quaffed  the  nectared  wisdom  of  the  Cross. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  127 


THE   SEASONS 

"POND  nature  in  her  cyclic  course 

Kaledoscopic  shows 

A  pageantry  of  grace  and  force 

While  time  its  gift  bestows. 

In  Spring  the  fields  are  strewn  with  flowers 

Of  many  colored  hue  ; 
And  dormant  earth's  resurgent  powers 

Thrill  in  her  veins  anew. 

The  Summer  months'  luxuriance 

Is  limned  on  hill  and  tree ; 
The  sun's  sweet  golden  radiance 

Is  poured  upon  the  lea. 


128  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

The  mellow  days  of  Autumn  show 
The  ripened  fruit  and  corn ; 

The  crimson  tints  with  softened  glow 
The  stately  trees  adorn. 

Across  the  barren,  storm-swept  fields 
The  flakly  snow  is  blown  ; 

The  icy  king  of  Winter  wields 
The  sceptre  on  the  throne. 

As  nature's  changing  seasons  span 

The  periodic  year, 
Thus  epochs  in  the  life  of  man 

As  sequently  appear. 

The  tender  bud  of  youth's  fair  Spring 
To  Summer's  growth  unfolds  ; 

Then  Autumn  years  decay  soon  bring 
Our  corpse  the  Winter  holds. 


SONGS,  SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  129 


THE   CHRISTIAN    SACRIFICE 

r*HE  ancient  priests  laid  on  the  altar-stone 

Their  sacrifice.     And  while  the  purpling  flow 
Of  blood  ran  hot  from  victims  in  the  throe 
Of  death  —  before  the  sacrificial  throne 
They  stood.     Their  voices  rose  in  plaintive  tone 
Beseeching  gods  to  pity  those  below, 
And  for  their  people's  weight  of  sin  and  woe 
To  let  the  dying  creature's  blood  atone. 

The  priests  of  Christ  no  bloody  victims  slay. 
Upon  the  whitened  altar-cloth  they  bring 
Their  regal  Lord  ;  and  then  their  prayers  arise 
With  lifted  Host :  "  Wash  Thou  our  sins  away, 
And  stay,  O  Christ,  God's  wrath  !  "     What  offering 
Excels  the  grandeur  of  this  sacrifice? 


130  SONGS.    SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


MOTHER    OF   SORROWS 

\1  7 HAT  sorrow  e'er  was  like  to  thine, 
Dear  Mother  of  our  King  divine ; 
Who  keener  felt  a  mother's  loss 
Than  thou,  beneath  the  Savior's  Cross  ? 

Disconsolate  thy  sad  eyes  see 

The  depth  of  thy  son's  misery  ; 

The  child  you  nursed,  the  son  you  bore, 

Hangs  on  the  cross-tree  drenched  with  gore. 

So  comely  once,  so  abject  now, 
Foul  Calvary's  shame  was  on  his  brow  — 
'Twas  writ  with  lies,  with  hate  and  scorn, 
'Twas  written  on  thy  heart  forlorn. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  131 

Thy  baby-boy  whose  tender  years 
Of  winsome  love  allayed  thy  fears 
In  virile  strength,  to  manhood  grown, 
His  creature's  curse  must  now  atone. 

You  felt  His  benedictions  rife, 
You  saw  Him  raise  the  dead  to  life. 
No  love  He  spared  to  give  relief  - 
On  either  side  now  hangs  a  thief. 

We  love  thy  sorrows,  mother  dear, 
We  hallow  every  bitter  tear. 
Thy  Golgotha  of  pain  and  shame 
Has  aureoled  thy  sacred  name. 


I32  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


AN    AWAKENING 

PHE  rose  bursts  from  her  sepulchre  of  green, 

And  flings  her  glowing  petals  to  the  breeze  ; 
Her  fragrance  borne  as  from  mild  southern  seas, 
Ascends  like  incense  to  her  season's  Queen. 
The  song-thrush  'cross  the  scented  meadows  sheen 
Quickens  his  flight  to  the  tall  elm  trees ; 
From  thence  to  field  and  flower,  —  his  devotees, 
He  casts  a  liquid  melody,  unseen. 

So  does  my  soul,  on  this  resplendent  morn, 
Burst  like  the  prisoned  rose  from  cerement-fold, 
And  breathe  to  thy  bright  throne  without  dismay 
The  simple  fragrance  of  her  life  new-born. 
On  restless,  spreading  wings,  with  joy  untold, 
She  soars  and  sings  to  thee,  thou  Queen  of  May. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  133 


THE   SANCTUARY    LAMP 

T    ONE  watcher  of  the  Sacrament, 

How  constant  is  thy  ray ; 
Thy  flame  is  a  mute  testament 
Of  Christ's  abiding  stay. 

The  busy  hours  of  toilsome  strife 

Behold  thy  ruddy  light ; 
The  pulsing  flicker  of  thy  life 

Keeps  vigil  in  the  night. 


134  SOA7GS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

Ungrateful  man,  his  captive  king, 

Upon  the  altar  spurns ; 
Thy  gentle  flame  encrimsoning 

The  sanctuary  burns. 

Thy  constant  glow,  within  the  lamp, 

Fidelity  explains ; 
Our  sluggish  hearts  all  bear  the  stamp 

That  sloth  offensive  reigns. 

Fan  into  flame  our  tepid  souls  — 

Enkindle  from  above ; 
Make,  Christ,  our  hearts  bright  burning  coals 

Of  tender,  constant  love. 

All  through  the  day,  yea,  through  the  night, 

Thy  oil  of  love  bestow  ; 
Our  souls  own  sanctuary  light 

Shall  then  with  fervor  glow. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  135 


THE   SILVER   SHEAF 

(Respectfully  dedicated  to  the  Very  Rev.  L.  F.  Kearney,  O.P.,  S.T.M., 
Provincial  of  the  Province  of  St.  Joseph,  upon  the  occasion  of  the  celebra- 
tion of  the  Silver  Jubilee  of  his  Ordination  to  the  Priesthood,  Sept.  9,  1908.) 

O  RIGHT  shone  the  star  on  Dominic's  brow  in  old 

Castile,  and  brighter  burned  the  quenchless  flame 
Of  love  throughout  his  life  for  Christ.     His  name, 
A  solace  to  the  poor  within  the  fold, 
Cast  fear  and  dread  in  hellish  hearts  whose  cold 
And  sensate  teaching  were  their  country's  shame. 
Deep  etched  upon  the  golden  scroll  of  fame 
His  blessed  life  and  works  are  aureoled. 

Well  hast  thou  trod  the  footprints  of  thy  sire 

And  noble  are  the  triumphs  of  thy  reign. 

Sweet  visaged  Truth,  our  heritage,  'mid  tears 

Of  love  thou  taught  to  men,  and  quick  thy  ire 

Struck  erring  hearts  who  Truth  assailed.     Christ  deign 

A  blessing  on  thy  silver  sheaf  of  years. 


136  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


THE   SPIRITUAL    DYNASTY 
OF    PAIN 

PWO  crowns  to  each  are  preferred  in  life's  race ; 

Symbolic  ease  —  the  other,  pain's  disgrace  ; 
The  crown  of  gold  —  the  sunlit  hours  show, 
The  crown  of  thorns  is  typical  of  woe. 

The  panting  mass  reach  for  the  burnished  crown, 
They  seek  the  rose-strewn  path  and  brief  renown ; 
Affrighted  by  the  poignant  thorns  of  pain, 
With  hastening  steps  they  flee  her  iron  reign. 

These  crowns  were  offered  to  Sienna's  saint, 
And  both  at  length  alluringly  did  paint ; 
The  gold,  —  its  tranquil  days  and  sunny  skies, 
The  thorns,  —  its  gall  and  myrrh  of  tearful  eyes. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  137 

Her  craft  of  life  might  sail  on  summer  seas 
To  care,  oblivious,  and  with  halcyon  ease  ; 
No  fretful  thoughts  her  lineaments  could  plow, 
While  song  and  mirth  with  gold  enwreathed  her  brow. 

Why  choose  the  rapier  thorns,  each  fraught  with  dole, 
The  newer  crucifixions  of  the  soul  ? 
Why  stud  her  temples  with  these  lance-like  blades, 
And  mantle  all  her  days  with  sorrow's  shades  ? 

Intuitive  she  saw  that  gold's  alloy 
Would  sequent  mar  each  vapid,  mundane  joy  ; 
The  spear-like  thorns,  though  sanguinely  impressed, 
She  knew  before  the  Savior's  brow  caressed. 

Oh,  happy  choice,  that  faith-illumined  brought 
The  crown  of  thorns  with  sacred  memories  fraught ; 
The  prongs  of  grief  enwreathed  upon  thy  head, 
An  added  lustre  from  the  Savior's  shed. 

Seraphic  child  of  Dominic,  our  Sire, 
Teach  us  the  potency  of  suffering's  fire ; 
And  may  each  fetid  blight  of  mortal  stain 
Yield  to  the  chastening  dynasty  of  pain. 


138  SOA'GS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


TO   THE   GARDEN   OF   HEAVEN 

(Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Joseph  Arthur  Lennon  ;  Classmate,  H.  C., 
1902  ;  Died  May  24,  1911.) 

/^VFT  'mid  a  garden's  manifold  display 

Some  tender  buds,  unfolding  to  the  light 
And  charming  by  their  loveliness  of  sight, 
The  leisure  steps  of  careful  keepers  stay  ; 
A  larger  growth,  a  fresher  bed  to  lay 
Their  thirsting  roots  and  stall  the  threatened  blight 
Of  arid  days  ;  these  anxious  thoughts  invite 
A  newer  earth,  a  moist  and  cooler  clay. 

Thy  fragrant  bud  of  life's  unblossomed  flower 
Unfolded  to  the  sun  of  youth's  career. 
The  Master  gardener  saw  thy  lilied  soul 
And  tenderly  transplanted  to  His  bower, 
The  sunny  skies  and  purer  atmosphere 
Of  Heaven  are  now  thy  terminated  goal. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  139 


LAZARUS 

T^HREE  days  the  form,  within  the  tomb, 

Of  Lazarus  decayed ; 
Three  days  the  heavy  pall  of  gloom 
Upon  his  sisters  weighed. 

The  lone  companion  of  their  years, 

By  death  left  them  bereaved ; 
The  constant  tribute  of  their  tears 

Showed  how  his  dear  ones  grieved. 

One  gleam  of  hope  illumed  their  mind, 

One  pearly  ray  gave  cheer  ; 
The  gentle  Savior  of  mankind 

Would  lift  their  shadows  drear. 


14°  SONGS,  SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

His  leisure  moments  oft  were  spent 

At  Lazarus'  side ; 
His  sacred  greetings  oft  were  sent, 

And  with  them  would  abide. 


The  sisters  sped  a  messenger 

To  tell  of  his  demise  ; 
And  hope  again,  a  harbinger, 

Lit  up  their  saddened  eyes. 

The  Savior  came  at  their  behest  — 

He  visibly  repined ; 
They  asked  Him  but  one  fond  request, 

His  power  they  had  divined. 


Without  the  tomb  he  stood  alone, 
And  bade  his  friend  arise ; 

Away  then  rolled  the  massive  stone, 
And  grief  turned  to  surprise. 


Forth  Lazarus  in  cerement-fold, 

Came  at  the  call  divine ; 
His  quickened  soul  thrilled  to  behold 

The  Savior's  face  benign. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  1 

The  gentle  tears  the  Savior  shed, 
Welled  from  his  doleful  eyes  ; 

These  tender  tributes  for  the  dead 
His  love  immortalize. 

When  e'er  our  souls  to  Christ  are  twined, 
And  sin  then  breaks  the  ties, 

His  bitter  tears  an  outlet  find, 
His  heart  is  filled  with  sighs. 


COME    TO    THY    THRONE 

\\  7TTH  heavy  hearts  the  holy  couple  went 

From  unkind  Bethlehem.     Unsheltered  there, 
Foot-sore  they  trod  the  hilly  thoroughfare 
That  led  them  to  a  rock-ribbed  cave  which  lent 
Its  cover  for  the  night.     Within,  while  bent 
Upon  the  hard  and  straw-strewn  floor  in  prayer, 
The  Virgin  brought  into  the  world  an  heir 
Whose  loveliness  outshone  the  firmament. 

I  will  not  send  Thee  from  my  heart,  dear  Lord, 
This  Christmas  morn.     And  though  I  offer  Thee 
The  humble  straw  of  fervent  love  whereon 
To  place  Thy  form,  my  thoughts  in  sweet  accord 
Shall  keep  Thy  court.     Come,  gentle  King,  and  see 
Where  I  have  placed  Thy  throne  to  rest  upon. 


142 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE 
HEART 

E  summer  morn  my  listless  foot-steps  led 
Me  to  a  rose.     A  zephyr  broke  its  rest, 
And,  from  the  fragrant  chalice  of  its  breast, 
A  sweet  aroma  on  my  spirit  shed. 
At  eve,  while  yet  the  dying  splendor  spread 
Far  out  along  the  crimson-tinted  west, 
I  gazed  upon  a  gently  nodding  crest 
Of  pinks,  and  on  their  scented  sweetness  fed. 

Though  sweet  the  slender  waking  rose  distills 
Its  fragrance  at  the  dawn;  though  incense-fraught 
At  eve,  the  drooping  pink  breathes  on  the  air, 
Yet  sweeter  is  the  scent,  I  thought,  which  fills 
A  meek  and  contrite  human  heart  that's  taught 
To  cultivate  the  humble  flowers  of  prayer. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


143 


MILLERS  AT  LIFE'S  STONE 

\\  7E  stand  like  millers  at  life's  stone. 

The  mental  seed  in  springtime  sown 
Autumnal  days  a  fruitage  brings, 
Then  psychic  revolution  flings 
The  ripe  and  whitened  grain  alone. 


How  oft  our  seeds  are  choked  with  weeds 

Of  nugatory  thoughts  and  deeds  ; 

And  harvest  days  a  sickly  yield 

Take  from  the  mind's  ill-nurtured  field, 

Whose  noxious  soil  inanely  breeds. 


144 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


Our  mill  of  life  is  fed  with  grain, 
The  guerdon  of  long  years  of  pain  ; 
As  likewise  with  the  fruit  of  sloth, 
The  tares  that  zealous  spirits  loathe 
And  careless,  sluggish  souls  obtain. 

Feed  then  the  stone  with  fruitful  thought, 
Feed  with  each  action  kindly  wrought, 
Restrain  the  chaff  of  empty  speech, 
Supply  the  living  acts  which  teach 
How  earnest  lives  with  deeds  are  fraught. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  145 


THE   SPICES    OF   A    NEW    LIFE 

A  T  Easter  dawn  the  holy  women  sought 

The  Savior's  tomb  with  spices  they  had  bought 
Affection's  tribute  made  them  seek  the  tomb, 
For  on  their  souls  yet  hung  the  passion  gloom. 

The  One  whose  tranquil  love  had  cheered  each  day, 
By  death  their  widowed  hearts  rilled  with  dismay ; 
No  longer  would  they  see  His  smile  benign, 
No  longer  would  they  hear  His  words  divine. 

Along  the  road  with  hastening  s*teps  and  grieved, 
Their  love's  sweet  labor  from  their  King  received 
The  guerdon  of  His  presence  bright  and  fair  — 
The  influx  of  His  benedictions  rare. 

Let  us  bring  fragrant  spices  to  our  King 
On  Easter  morn  —  let  our  Hosannas  ring  ! 
The  sweet  anointing  from  our  risen  Lord 
Shall  be  our  gladsome  Easter-tide's  reward. 


146 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


THE    MONTH    OF   MAY 

\\  7 HO  does  not  love  the  month  of  May, 
So  sweetly  decked  in  spring  array  ; 
When  lilacs  scent  the  tepid  air, 
And  restless  birds  send  forth  their  prayer  ? 

Who  does  not  love,  "from  sheltered  nook, 
This  time  of  year  to  watch  the  brook, 
And  see  its  limpid  waters  flow 
As  winding  through  the  glen  they  go  ? 


Who  would  not  walk  upon  the  lea, 
Or  stroll  beside  the  crested  sea  ? 
And  gaze  upon  the  crimson  sky 
While  pageantry  of  clouds  pass  by  ? 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  147 

This  month,  whose  ever  hast'ning  hour 
Is  laden  with  the  perfumed  flower ; 
We  cherish  more  because  its  sheen 
Is  dedicated  to  our  Queen. 

Our  Queen,  upon  whose  beaming  face 
Shines  forth  the  plentitude  of  grace ; 
Whose  heav'nly  lips  sweet  words  impart 
To  sin-stained  soul  and  heavy  heart. 

We  love  thy  month  then,  Mother  dear, 
This  gladdest  time  of  all  the  year ; 
And  just  as  music  floods  the  Spring, 
To  thee,  our  souls  enraptured,  sing ! 


148  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


LIFE'S    CALVARIES 


O 


I  FT  have  our  lips  pressed  friendship's  cup 

And  quaffed  the  nectared  flow, 
Yet  sad  constraint  led  us  to  sup 
A  latent  myrrh  below. 

The  sunny  hours  of  friendship's  days 

Are  tapestried  with  joy, 
The  parting  word,  our  heart  dismays 

And  pains  with  its  alloy. 

The  gladsome  smile  of  genial  friends 

Enriches  while  they're  near, 
A  fond  farewell  a  tremor  sends 

And  palls  our  hearts  with  fear. 

The  parting  scenes  a  fitful  gloom 

Casts  on  our  dialed  life, 
As  transient  shadows  of  the  tomb 

Flit  o'er  a  joyful  strife. 

In  currents  warm  our  heart-blood  thrills 

At  friendship's  proffered  hand, 
The  ruby  tide  insensate  chills 

When  chosen  friends  disband. 

The  parting  griefs  are  Calvaries 

Along  life's  pleasant  marts  ; 
Each  cross  is  fraught  with  memories 

Of  true  and  trusted  hearts. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  149 


COMPANION    OF   OUR   WAY 

C  ACH  fitful  phase  of  earthly  life 

A  sweet  companion  holds ; 
In  joy  and  grief,  in  every  strife, 
Its  succor  ne'er  withholds. 

Dear  blessed  beads,  sweet  Rosary, 

Our  spirits  love  to  stay 
Upon  each  storied  mystery 

Of  Christ's  eventful  way. 

When  gladness  wreathes  our  soul  with  smiles, 

And  chases  every  fear, 
Each  joyful  mystery  beguiles 

While  hallowed  scenes  appear. 

From  Gabriel's  message  to  the  hour 
When  Christ,  who  strayed,  was  found, 

Each  incident  our  hearts  embower 
With  praise  and  love  profound. 


150  SONGS,   SOATNE7'S  AND   ESSAYS 

The  saddened  hours  of  anxious  days 

Disconsolate  we  find 
Until  the  bead's  sweet  cadenced  lays 

Relieve  our  troubled  mind. 

The  Savior's  bitter  agony  — 

His  scourging,  thorns  and  Cross. 

Restore  our  spirit's  harmony, 
When  grieved  with  pain  or  loss. 

When  exultation  thrills  our  heart, 

And  joys  ecstatic  flow, 
We  count  Christ's  triumphs  each  apart 

With  prayerful  minds  aglow. 

The  risen  Lord  we  hail  with  love, 

The  Paraclete  acclaim ; 
We  think  of  Mary's  joys  above, 

Her  sanctity  proclaim. 

Oh  precious  gift,  thy  jewelled  beads 

Evoke  sweet  symphony  ; 
We  sing  the  King's  and  Mother's  deeds 

Upon  our  Rosary. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  151 


CONFIDENCE 

T  T IGH  on  Thy  Cross  on  Calvary, 

Thou  heard  the  rabble's  ribaldry ; 
With  loathsome  taunts  they  scorned  Thy  name, 
And  gloried  in  Thy  bitter  shame. 

Thy  miracles  no  credence  gained  — 
The  motley  crowd  cursed  unrestrained ; 
Each  passing  Scribe  and  Pharisee 
Maligned  Thy  sweet  Divinity. 

The  dying  thief  required  no  sign 
To  tell  his  soul  Thou  wert  divine ; 
Each  lineament  Thy  Godhead  proved, 
And  hence  his  lips  in  prayer  moved. 

He  asked  one  favor  from  Thy  hand, 
To  be  remembered  in  Thy  land ; 
This  trusting  faith  did  then  suffice 
To  let  him  share  Thy  Paradise. 

When  sorrow  clouds  thy  mind  with  care, 
And  pain  and  anguish  teach  despair, 
Seek  thou  the  Savior  for  relief 
And  emulate  the  dying  thief. 


SON'GS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


THE   VISION   OF   THE    WEST 

\  17 HEN  hanging  on  Thy  tree  of  shame, 

And  scoffing  ingrates  cursed  Thy  name, 
Thy  blood-shot  eyes  turned  towards  the  West 
To  seek  a  momentary  rest. 


Thy  work  was  spurned,  Thy  love  refused, 
They  held  Thee  criminal,  accused, 
And  while  upon  the  Cross  with  pain, 
The  rabble  hurled  their  proud  disdain. 


SONGS,  SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  153 

You  saw  the  East  ungrateful  hold 
The  memory  of  Thy  passion  old, 
The  youthful  West  knelt  at  Thy  feet, 
Enraptured  with  Thy  Gospel  sweet. 

In  Thy  sad  hour  upon  the  tree 

This  vision  cheered  Thy  agony, 

You  saw  fond  hearts  in  newer  lands, 

And  blessed  them  with  Thy  out-stretched  hands. 

Oh  happy  earth  of  this  new  world 
Where  Christ's  sweet  banner  is  unfurled, 
The  dying  Savior  did  embrace 
Thy  loved  and  faithful  populace. 


154  SOATGS,   SO.VNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


LIFE'S    TRUEST    FRIEND 

\17E  treasure  here  the  constant  friend 

Whose  love  attends  our  strife, 
We  follow  where  his  footsteps  tend 
To  nobler  things  in  life. 

In  travail  drear  his  words  of  cheer 

Console  our  heavy  heart ; 
His  gladsome  smile  dispels  each  fear, 

And  spectral  thoughts  depart. 

Unswerving  faith,  inviolate 
In  thought  and  living  deed  ; 

These  golden  traits  ingratiate 
The  friend  we  love  to  heed. 

Yet  truest  friend  who  ever  trod 
The  greensward  of  our  earth  ; 

Inconstant  seems  to  man's  own  God, 
Who  loved  us  ere  our  birth. 

Eternal  ages  in  the  womb 

Of  time  foresaw  the  love 
That  trinal  God,  from  crib  to  tomb, 

On  man  would  shed  above. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  155 

The  natal  day  of  Christ's  career 

God's  predilection  showed ; 
Consummate  love,  on  Calvary  drear, 

For  man,  ensanguined  flowed. 

From  Golgotha  the  parting  breath 

Of  Jesus  on  the  Cross 
Attested  that  the  Savior's  death 

Regained  man's  primal  loss. 

Yet  greater  love  for  ransomed  man 

Was  left  as  testament, 
When  Christ  anew  His  life  began 

Within  the  Sacrament. 

What  greater  love,  the  Scripture  saith, 

To  consecrate  life's  end, 
Than  suffer  shame,  and  pain,  and  death, 

For  one  embosomed  friend. 

But  mortal  life  did  not  suffice 

For  Christ  upon  the  rood  ; 
His  greater  pledge  than  sacrifice 

Was  flesh  and  blood  as  food. 

With  regal  love  He  dwells  alone 

As  sacramental  king ; 
Each  day  upon  the  altar  stone 

We  see  His  offering. 


I56  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 

Incarnate  God,  enthuse  my  heart 
With  deeper  love  for  Thee  ; 

Teach  me  to  see  the  transient  part 
Of  human  vanity. 

Give  to  my  soul,  dear  Pelican, 
Thy  nectared  blood  and  flesh ; 

Remove  each  fell  forbidding  ban 
To  Thy  endeared  caress. 

*  *  * 

THE   SYMPHONY    OF   THE 
SAINTS 

\  17 HAT  glory  in  the  heavenly  sphere 

Reigns  every  All-Saints  day, 
When  neither  pain  nor  grief  nor  tear 
Disturbs  each  joyful  lay. 

The  Patriarchs  and  Prophets  old 
Recount  God's  triumphs  o'er ; 

The  staunch  Apostles  of  Christ's  fold 
Their  dulcet  hymns  unfold. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  157 

The  Martyrs  and  Confessors  fling 

Triumphant  notes  above ; 
The  lily  band  of  Virgins  sing 

Their  canticles  of  love. 

A  universal  harmony 

The  Saints  fling  from  their  lyres ; 
The  vision  of  the  Trinity 

Their  raptured  words  inspires. 

This  sacred  convocation's  hymn 

With  ecstacy  they  raise  ; 
The  Savior's  gentle  love  they  limn 

And  jubilantly  praise. 

How  dear  the  thought  that  one  fond  day, 

If  faithful  we  remain, 
With  Christ's  own  Saints  we  shall  portray 

The  glories  of  His  reign. 

Live  then,  my  soul,  with  noble  thought  — 

The  Savior's  foot-prints  trace  ; 
Strive  that  each  daily  action  wrought 

May  win  Christ's  sweet  embrace. 


158  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


THE    BETTER    QUEST 

T  T  OW  madd'ning  is  the  quest  for  gold, 

How  ceaseless  seek  the  young  and  old  ; 
Our  servile  knees  imprint  the  sod 
Before  the  fetish-altared  god. 

Some  think  the  maintenance  of  health 
Is  bulwarked  by  amassing  wealth  ; 
Some  think  the  evils  of  our  span 
Are  thwarted  by  this  talisman. 

Omnipotent  seems  gold's  fell  power 
To  buy  the  baubles  of  an  hour ; 
A  mamon  greed  demeans  our  age, 
And  sordid  is  our  vassalage. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS  159 

Assisi's  saint  the  fetters  broke, 
And  sought  a  kind  and  gentler  yoke ; 
The  shackles  fell,  his  soul  was  free, 
When  coyly  came  sweet  poverty. 

No  anxious  cares  then  filled  his  mind  — 
Earth's  brittle  joys  were  left  behind  ; 
Denuded  of  the  tinselled  ore, 
His  chastened  spirit  learned  to  soar. 

The  living  Christ  upon  the  earth, 
Taught  poverty  e'en  from  His  birth  ; 
He  blessed  when  on  the  mount  apart, 
The  meek,  the  low,  the  poor  of  heart. 

Emancipated  from  wealth's  thrall, 
St.  Francis  sought  Christ  as  his  all ; 
The  broken  idol  of  earth's  greed 
Acclaimed  the  glory  of  his  deed. 

Our  spirits  free  from  lucre's  taint, 
Thy  prayers  preserve,  seraphic  saint ; 
Teach  us  to  spurn  gold's  sordid  quest  — 
Within  Christ's  heart  may  we  find  rest. 


160  SONGS,    SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 


MY    IDOL 

PROUD  Rome  bent  captive  to  the  chiseled  form 

Of  Venus.     Charming  in  her  symmetry, 
Her  cult  was  but  a  shameless  revelry  — 
Man's  latent,  seething  passions  to  transform. 
The  Greeks  round  Aphrodite  once  did  swarm, 
Both  cultured  chief  and  simple  laity, 
To  celebrate  her  grace  with  pageantry, 
While  happy  soul  and  pulsing  heart  grew  warm. 

My  heart  and  mind  a  nobler  idol  hold 

Than  goddess  from  a  Greek  or  Roman  shore  ; 

On  sun-kissed  brows  bright  threads  of  silver  hover, 

And  love-lit  eyes  a  gleam  of  heaven  unfold ; 

Her  mantling  cheek  and  features  I  adore, 

And  call  her  by  the  sweetest  name  of  —  Mother. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  161 


THE   GUERDONED    BRIDES    OF 
CHRIST 


(Suggested  upon  seeing  the  Little  Cemetery  at  St.  Mary's  of  the  Springs, 
Columbus,  Ohio,  where  the  Sisters  of  St.  Dominic  are  buried.) 


O  LEEP,  gentle  spouses  of  the  Lord  ! 
Sleep,  in  your  peaceful  mounds  ! 
Keep,  as  your  ceaseless  vigil  rounds, 
Your  hope  and  sweet  accord. 


Full  many  a  day  your  chastened  feet 
The  Savior's  foot-prints  trod  ; 

Full  many  a  day  the  Virgin  sweet, 
Enflamed  your  hearts  for  God. 

Your  graves  are  jewelled  with  the  tears 

Of  faithful  friends  and  true, 
And  memories  of  your  love-fraught  years 

Sweet  friendship's  voice  renew. 

Your  tender  days  of  virginhood, 
Like  scented  flowers  of  love, 

You  twined  around  the  sacred  rood 
And  sought  your  Spouse  above. 


62  SONGS,  SOAWEJ^S  AND   ESSAYS 

How  oft  did  erring  children  cease 
Their  evil  trend  of  days, 

And  by  your  words  of  love  and  peace 
Amend  their  sinful  ways. 

Your  nectared  words  of  eloquence, 

With  gentle,  loving  art, 
Revealed  God's  sweet  omnipotence 

To  many  a  saddened  heart. 

With  gifted  tongue  the  tragic  price 
Of  Christ  you  oft  proclaimed  ; 

You  preached  the  thrilling  sacrifice 
And  tepid  hearts  enflamed. 

True  daughters  of  our  saintly  sire, 
Your  life  and  work  attest 

That  Jesus,  'mid  His  heavenly  choir, 
Has  guerdoned  you  with  rest. 

Sleep,  gentle  Sisters  of  the  Springs ! 

Sleep  in  your  lilied  gowns  ! 
Your  sacrificial  conquest  brings 

The  vision  of  your  crowns. 


SOA7GS,  SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  163 


THE    HEM    OF    HIS 
GARMENT 

''TO-DAY  the  skeptics  of  the  world  unheed 
The  true  and  sacred  tenets  of  our  creed ; 
The  demonstrations  of  their  sense  demand 
Proof  palpable  before  they  understand. 

The  rule,  the  canon  of  their  minds  upholds 
What  ears  and  eyes  and  taste  and  touch  unfolds ! 
Criterions  like  these  are  deified  — 
What  comes  not  in  their  scope  is  vilified. 

Assent  to  truths  revealed  by  God's  decree, 
Assent  unquestioned  in  the  Trinity, 
We  grant,  because  the  intellect  of  man 
Fails  God's  eternal  verities  to  scan. 

How  nobly  does  the  Gospel  tell  the  tale  — 
How  nobly  did  one  woman's  faith  prevail! 
To  touch  His  garment  at  the  hem  sufficed 
To  win  her  favor  from  the  living  Christ. 


164  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

"  Thy  faith  hath  made  thee  whole,"  the  Savior  said 
At  once  the  illness  of  her  years  was  fled ; 
Unflinching  faith  unto  her  had  revealed 
That  those  who  trust  in  God  are  always  healed. 

The  ages  sing  thy  praise,  triumphant  soul, 
They  see  upon  thy  brow  Faith's  aureole ; 
The  mists  of  doubt  through  faith  now  evanesce, 
A  deeper  trust  in  Christ  thy  name  doth  bless. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS  165 


THE    KINGLY   GUEST 

LJOSANNAS  rang  with  loud  acclaim  ! 

Hosannas  rang  for  Christ's  sweet  name  ; 
The  people  sang  their  gladsome  psalms  — 
The  Savior's  path  was  strewn  with  palms. 


Triumphant  through  the  city  gate, 
Triumphant  rode  our  King  in  state ; 
Exultant  voices  in  accord 
Sang  sweet  Hosannas  to  their  Lord. 


In  glorified  humanity 
To-day  Christ  comes  with  pageantry ; 
Cherubic  hosts  attend  and  sing 
Before  our  Sacramental  King. 


To  those  who  seek  Christ's  banquet  hall, 
The  splendors  of  His  feast  enthrall ; 
The  honied  Bread  of  Life  imparts 
A  vital  strength  to  Christian  hearts. 


i66 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


Strew  palms  of  love,  strew  flowers  of  prayers, 
Let  glad  Hosannas  pierce  the  air ! 
When  from  the  altar  of  His  throne 
Christ  comes  to  dwell  with  you  alone. 

His  path  unto  your  heart  should  be 
The  perfumed  road  of  sanctity; 
Hymn  then  your  praise,  let  love  attest 
The  welcome  for  your  Kingly  Guest. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


167 


THE  FLEETING  BREATH  OF 
FAME 

TJOW  transient  is  the  glory  of  a  name, 

How  fleeting  is  the  fickle  breath  of  fame  ; 
Commemorative  shafts  of  bronze  soon  rust, 
The  storied  monuments  return  to  dust. 


Some  seek  renown  upon  the  fields  of  blood, 
Yet  others  seek  upon  the  sapphire  flood ; 
Some  in  the  halls  of  science  and  of  art  — 
A  greater  host  along  the  busy  mart. 

Enduring  fame,  man  seeks  in  every  strife, — 
He  deems  it  adds  a  lustre  to  his  life ; 
Oblivion's  dreaded  shades  his  spirit  palls, 
To  live  enshrined  in  other  minds,  enthralls. 


1 68 


SONGS,  SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


With  futile  strength  we  labor  for  renown, 

That  future  years  our  memory  may  crown  ; 

Our  Titan  deeds,  though  gold-penned,  men  may  trace, 

Time's  own  corroding  ringer  shall  efface. 

Live  then  in  thought,  in  action  and  in  deed  — 
Not  for  the  world's  brief,  perishable  meed ; 
Enhance  each  work  as  onwardly  you  plod, 
By  consecrating  to  your  risen  God. 


SONGS,   SONNETS  AND   ESSAYS 


169 


REST 

A17HAT  seek  the  denizens  of  earth, 

What  seek  they  as  their  labor's  worth  ? 
Each  votary  with  heart  elate, 
His  soul  with  peace  would  satiate. 


The  mammon  worshippers  appease 
Their  craving  with  a  moneyed  ease ; 
The  eager  satellites  of  fame 
Seek  glory  in  the  world's  acclaim. 

Each  cherished  goal  of  human  life 
Is  guerdoned  by  incessant  strife ; 
We  deem  the  travail  of  each  quest 
Is  laurelled  by  a  halcyon  rest. 


170  SONGS,   SONNETS  AND  ESSAYS 

But  peace  of  heart  and  peace  of  mind 
We  worldly  sycophants  ne'er  find  ; 
When  once  we  think  our  hopes  attained, 
With  restiveness  our  souls  are  pained. 

Ephemeral  is  earthly  joy, 
Each  human  pleasure  bears  alloy ; 
Our  thirsting  spirits  strive  to  take 
Insipid  draughts  that  never  slake. 

In  God  alone  we  find  our  boon, 
In  Him  alone  our  spirits  swoon ; 
Our  restive  hearts  their  longings  cease, 
Enbalmed  in  Christ's  unending  peace. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


